


Heart to Heart

by apolesen



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Disregards Generations, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heart Attacks, Hospitals, M/M, Male Friendship, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jim Kirk turns seventy, his life as star-ship captain seems farther away than ever before, but soon he is forced to realise that domestic life on Earth might lead to events which are more disastrous to him than most deep-space missions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The wine-glass gave off a melodious tone when the neck of the bottle connected with it. 

‘Here we go,’ McCoy said, handing the glasses around and then raising his own in a toast. ‘Happy birthday, Jim.’ 

‘Happy birthday,’ Spock repeated, turning his eyes at the third man of the party, who smiled at them both and raised his own glass. They tasted the wine, which McCoy had brought for him. 

‘Not too bad,’ was Jim’s judgment when they had lowered them again. 

‘”Not too bad”?’ the old doctor said incredulously. ‘Would you like to know how much I paid for that bottle?’ 

‘Preferably not, or I’ll feel bad about still getting you half-bad brandy,’ the other man answered, as Spock took another measured sip. 

‘I find the taste pleasing, albeit unfamiliar,’ he said. 

‘There – you hear?’ McCoy said. ‘Even Spock understands it. Only good thing with not drinking, I guess – keeps your taste-buds young. Wouldn’t trade it, though.’ 

‘I’m just pulling your leg, Bones,’ Jim admitted as he shifted his chair, and got a snort, communicating understanding, in return. 

‘So, how does it feel? Being a year older,’ he then said, half friendly and half teasingly. 

‘Don’t remind me of it,’ was the answer, accompanied with a sigh. ‘Old age’s breathing down my neck. I mean, look at us. We don’t even bother going out to a restaurant. I spent the afternoon cooking my own birthday dinner…’ 

‘I offered to do the cooking, and you insisted that you wanted to do it together,’ Spock pointed out, looking him in the eye for a moment. ‘Besides, I surrendered all parts of the cooking which you find enjoyable to you.’ 

‘That mostly means that I don’t have to chop any onion,’ Jim said to McCoy. ‘Well, not quite. But anyway. Then after said birthday dinner, we sit around drinking…’ He scrambled for his reading glasses around his neck and tipped the wine bottle to be able to see the name. ‘I can’t even pronounce that.’ 

‘It’s French, not – I don’t know – Cardassian,’ Bones pointed out. 

‘Same difference,’ Jim answered. ‘Most solar systems are closer than Europe for me.’ Then he turned to Spock. ‘It was ages since we went to Europe. Shouldn’t we go soon?’ 

‘”Europe” is not a country, Jim,’ the Vulcan observed, but was unable to hide his smile. ‘You will have to be more precise.’ 

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, shrugging. ‘There are so many places – so much I haven’t seen. You spend your entire life in space, and then you realise you don’t know what a good part of your own planet looks like.’ He cradled the glass in his hand and took a sip of the wine. ‘I guess I won’t have time to find out all of it, either.’ 

‘Stop talking like you’re dying,’ McCoy said curtly. ‘Just because it’s your seventieth birthday doesn’t mean you’re about to kick the bucket.’ He too tasted his wine and then said: ‘Besides, I’m older than either of you.’ This was a usual reminder from the old doctor; since they retired, he had come to enjoy pointing out that he was their senior. Despite that, it was hard to imagine that he was past eighty; even if his hair gone completely white and his face was generously lined, there was still something boyish about his eyes, which made him seem considerably younger. 

‘Doctor McCoy is correct, Jim,’ Spock said. ‘None of us are yet beyond the life expectancy of males in our respective species and previous occupation. Pessimism is quite uncalled for.’ 

‘At last the man says something which makes sense,’ McCoy scoffed. ‘What did Spock give you, anyway?’ Spock actually looked rather embarrassed at the question. 

‘A book,’ he answered. ‘More precisely, a first edition of _Mémoires d’Hadrien_ by Marguerite Yourcenar. A rather well-preserved volume, considering it is more than three-hundred and fifty years old.’ 

‘You also gave me socks,’ Jim said teasingly. 

‘You are always in need of socks, Jim,’ Spock answered. ‘You have shown an almost admirable skill in loosing half of a pair.’ 

‘True enough,’ he admitted with a shrug. The Vulcan smiled with something which in a human would have been triumphant. Then he turned and looked at the old mechanical clock-works, which stood on one of the shelves on the far wall. Upon noting the time, he rose and said: 

‘It seems to be time to retire.’ He looked at McCoy – ‘Doctor, good night’ – and then to Jim. ‘Jim. I will see you shortly.’ And in a flurry of robes, he left the room. An amused silence filled the room as McCoy raised his eye-brows inquiringly. 

‘Well, seems like I need to chuck you out,’ Jim said and rose, wincing slightly as an ache shot through his arthritic joints. ‘Damned knees – they drive me insane.’ 

‘They’d probably get better if you bothered taking your medicine,’ the old doctor said. ‘Don’t think Spock hasn’t told on you.’ 

‘I do take my medicine,’ he insisted, and added: ‘Otherwise Spock nags me until I remember it.’ McCoy laughed slightly, then jerked his head towards the wall beyond which the bedroom lay.

‘Do you still…? You know.’ Jim could not suppress a grin. ‘Can’t see how you do it.’

‘What can I say? He keeps me fit.’ 

‘I really should get out of here, then,’ McCoy said. ‘Thanks for dinner and – well, happy birthday.’ 

‘Thanks, Bones – I’m glad you could make it,’ he answered. 

‘Wouldn’t dare to miss it,’ he said, putting on his coat. ‘Good night, then.’ He patted his friend on the shoulder and left with a final nod. Jim lingered by the door for a moment, thinking that even if birthdays always depressed him as they reminded him how old he was getting, this had been a particularly good one. Then he turned to the bedroom; he felt Spock’s mental presence inside his head. When he reached the door, he hesitated, looking into the darkness of the room. 

‘Spock,’ he addressed the shape sitting on the bed. ‘You all right?’ The shape straightened and he saw a characteristic half-smile flicker over his features through the gloom.

‘Yes, _t’hy’la_. Only pondering certain things,’ he answered. Jim approached and stopped in front of him to stroke his hair and touch the point of an ear. 

‘What kind of things?’ 

‘Nothing of consequence – only the research I will have to deal with tomorrow,’ he answered, and placed a hand on the small of the other man’s back and leaning his face against his chest. 

‘Sounds unbearably boring,’ Jim observed. 

‘Indeed,’ Spock said, connecting their fingers. The bond seemed set alight at the touch. ‘I do hope that wine doctor McCoy got you has not made you drowsy.’ 

‘I don’t think it has, no,’ he answered, feeling desire stirring within him, even as he discerned an answering sensation in his bondmate. ‘Do you need to be… distracted?’ 

‘I was under the impression that I was the one distracting _you_ ,’ Spock said, swirling their fingers around and lifting his face. 

‘Let’s make it mutual,’ Jim said languidly and leaned down to kiss him. 

 

***

 

The screech of the alarm-clock woke Jim, shaking him unforgivingly out of the dream he was having. Automatically, he rolled over and stopped the noise, and rolled over to his other side. Spock would wake soon, he knew (from what his bondmate had told him, it always took him 1.6 minutes to wake up after the alarm had gone off), but he could not resist coming closer and putting an arm around him. Yesterday’s lovemaking still loomed fresh in the back of his mind. It must have gone on for hours, but he did not think even Spock could say for how long; it had been enough to make even the most logical Vulcan loose his controls. Jim still found it curious that they still managed, despite Spock’s alien physique, but he certainly did not complain. Of course it was not as frequently occurring as it had been twenty or even ten years ago, but the pleasure seemed only to grow. For a moment he remembered how frantically they had made love in the beginning, for fear that either of them would die during the next shift or mission. Over the years, that fear had receded as their duties had become less hazardous and they had grown older. Much as being retired annoyed him, he did not long for the constant fear which he had felt for his bondmate every time they beamed down to some hostile planet or encountered an enemy vessel. 

He propped himself up on an elbow, still with his other arm around Spock. Despite his Vulcan heritage, he had aged noticeably. Part of his hair was still black, but it was stadilky turning white. His face had become lined without loosing any of its elegance. While Jim had steadily gained weight since his early forties, Spock had done the opposite since their retirement, which sometimes made him think they looked almost comical alongside one another. Some features of his aging were rather alien; green veins shone through the thin skin beneath his eyes, and his whites as well as the irises had started to darken. Jim thought he had never loved him more than that moment. 

Spock suddenly opened his eyes and said: 

‘Nor I you.’ 

‘You’re prying,’ Kirk pointed out jokingly, leaning in to give him a kiss. 

‘It is only natural that such thoughts will go through the bond, even if you were not projecting them,’ he observed, even if his bondmate knew this very well, and kissed him back even as he extended two fingers to stroke his. Jim would happily have stayed in bed more the most part of the day, but knew that neither of them had the stamina for it. When they broke the kiss, he asked: 

‘You’re going to the library today, aren’t you?’ 

‘There are some articles I have to look over,’ Spock answered, caressing one of the other man’s round ears, which fascinated him just as much as his pointed ears intrigued his former captain. 

‘Do you enjoy it, that project for the Academy?’ he queried. 

‘You know of my need for intellectual stimulation, Jim. It is not ideal, but it is sufficiently satisfying.’

‘You’re talking about it like it’s half-bad sex,’ the human laughed. 

‘Sex would be much more pleasant, but it is not – at least not primarily – _intellectually_ stimulating,’ Spock answered, sitting up and kissing him again, which smothered his laughter. 

‘If you stay we can see if we can figure out a way to make it intellectually stimulating,’ Jim teased, and got a raised eyebrow for a response. 

‘I believe last night proved very well that my mental capacities do not function as well as they tend to in that particular situation,’ Spock pointed out. 

‘Oh, all right then,’ he said, mock-disappointed as he got up and handing him his night-robe. ‘Let’s make breakfast.’ While he put on his pyjama trousers and vest, Spock got out of bed and put the robe over his Terran-style pyjamas, which he always wore in the night, even if he had waited to put it on until just before he fell asleep; the nights of San Francisco were too cold for him. He struck a rather stately figure in it, and Jim could not resist kissing him once again before they went to the kitchen. He occupied himself with making coffee and toasting bread, and was surprised when he sat down and found that the only thing Spock had prepared was his tea. 

‘Is that all you’re having?’ he asked, and his bondmate nodded. The human was silent for a moment and then said: ‘Darling, are you all right?’ Spock looked up, sensing the concern in his words and through the bond. Jim only called him “darling” when he was feeling very tender or very concerned. 

‘I am well, Jim. I am simply not hungry.’ 

‘You haven’t eaten much these last few days,’ he observed, but was cut off. 

‘I am quite satisfied with only having tea – making myself eat more than I need would hardly be logical.’ At this, Jim half snorted, half laughed. 

‘All right, then,’ he said, taking his word for it. ‘Is it just one of your contemplative phases or are you on an endocrine glitch?’ It was hard to know with Spock’s hormonal cycle; it had sent him into _pon farr_ unexpectedly a few times, but more often it simply made him loose his appetite and turn a little short-tempered at times. But when he answered there was love and amusement in his gaze. 

‘It would be what you call a “contemplative phase”. My endocrine balance, I assure you, is normal.’ Jim nodded and they went onto discussing other matters. An hour later, Spock had dressed and kissed him goodbye to go to the library. When the door had closed and he heard the footsteps descending, he returned to the kitchen and had another cup of coffee. After showering and dressing, he set about rewinding his mechanical chronometres and polishing the antiques he had not had time to take care of before his birthday. Even if it was dull work in reality, it distracted him well and filled up most of the day. He only stopped for lunch and when his nephew Peter called to wish him a belated happy birthday. 

It was almost six o’clock when the door opened and Jim heard Spock enter and remove his shoes. He put the old pistol he had been cleaning back onto the wall and came to greet him. The Vulcan looked rather subdued, but smiled slightly when he saw him and accepted a kiss. 

‘How was your reading?’ Jim asked when he pulled away. 

‘Exceedingly dull,’ Spock admitted. ‘I hope the project will become more stimulating soon, or I will have to indulge in sex instead.’ He laughed, savouring the man’s humour, and taking his hand he lead him into the kitchen. 

They cooked dinner in what to another person would seem like companionable silence. Still their minds extending and touching through the bond, and the space between them was filled by thoughts and feelings, rather than by words. They did not truly speak until after dinner, when Spock seemed to notice Jim flexing his fingers impatiently. 

‘Are your joints causing you discomfort?’ he asked, reaching for his hand. 

‘They’re just a bit stiff,’ Jim said, but let him take it. He could hardly complain about this, even if his arthritic joints became only marginally better from Spock massaging them. Still, it was an intimate thing to do, especially for a Vulcan, and Jim cherished the way the man’s face filled with concentration and tenderness, his hooded eyes concentrated on his hands. Nevertheless, the human pointed out: 

‘You look tired.’ 

‘I am,’ he admitted with an almost human shrug. Then he looked up, still massaging his hands, and pointed out with a small smile: ‘It is not surprising, considering how little time to sleep you gave me yesterday.’ He laughed. 

‘I guess spending the day in the library didn’t help,’ he observed then, but took one of Spock’s hands and kissed the palm. It made him shiver, but he looked away.

‘An early night should be in order.’ There was some regret in his voice, even if the other man thought there should be no need for it, considering of the previous night. 

‘Play a game of chess with me first?’ he asked hopefully, and to his content he was given a nod in return. They cleared away the dishes quickly and set up the chess-board in front of the lit fire-place. Spock, at first huddling in his robes against the cold, relaxed as the room grew warmer, and the flicker of the flames which threw his face in sharp relief made him hauntingly beautiful. He felt through the bond that Spock was watching him as well, but he pretended he did not know, and their gazes became as much a game as the chess. They knew each other’s styles in chess well by now, but they still managed to extend the game for quite some time. At last, Jim made his king fall and then took Spock’s hand. 

‘Come to bed.’ That soft smile went over his face again and he nodded assent. Without letting go of each other’s hands they went into the bedroom. When they had changed their clothes and were getting into bed, Spock asked: 

‘Will you be reading?’

‘No, don’t feel much like it,’ he said, turning to his side and embracing him. ‘I’d rather talk to you. How’s _Vanity Fair_ coming on, by the way?’ 

‘I am enjoying it, even if it is slightly… peculiar.’ Jim chuckled. 

‘That seems to be your opinion on most Earth literature,’ he noted. Spock turned around to give him a cocked eyebrow and then to kiss him. 

‘I am always pleased when you give me recommendations what to read,’ he admitted, turning back and edging closer into his embrace. They were silent for a while, then he said: ‘There is a Chagal exhibition at the Louvre in a few weeks. Perhaps we could synchronise the Europe trip you wished for with that.’ 

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sounds great.’ 

‘I believe I am about to fall asleep,’ the Vulcan observed, even as the drowsiness through the bond grew. 

‘I noticed. Good night, Spock,’ he whispered, snaking a hand under his shirt and kissing his cheek. 

‘Good night, Jim,’ Spock whispered back, taking his hand. They fell asleep soon afterwards, their minds interlaced like their fingers.

 

***

 

‘Jim!’ 

He woke with a start, seeing only darkness. Something had woken him up – a sound, perhaps a shout… It was quite cold in the room; although he knew it would be fruitless, he fumbled in the sheets beside him, only to find that Spock was gone. Suddenly the sound came again, followed by an anguished scream.

‘Jim!’ 

He bolted out of bed, heart racing. _Where is he?_ He rushed out into the living room, looking wildly around, and then spotted him in the glass alcove. The shape was almost indistinguishable in the darkness, curled up in foetal position.Only a moment of hesitation stopped him, then he rushed to his side, fell to his knees and grabbed his shoulder. 

‘Spock, what’s wrong?’ The man whimpered, almost screamed, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around himself, as if in an attempt to quench the pain. Jim took a forceful grip around his arm and tried to look him in the eye. ‘What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?’ He whimpered once again, but in it was a word: 

‘Here.’ 

‘Where? Show me,’ he demanded, trying to turn him onto his back, but he resisted. Jim leaned over him and saw where his hand was placed, pressed hard against his right side. Once again he tried to make him look at him. ‘Please, Spock, talk to me, please – if it’s your heart…’ He could not bear to say more, but reached out and took his free hand to calm him, but at that moment, he gave a roar of pain which made him draw away. Fear was clouding his mind, alongside the distress he was feeling through the bond. He had never seen Spock show he was in such pain, not even when they had been in orbit around Deneva when the neural parasite had possessed him, not even after the mind-meld with V’Ger, when he had not been able to use his telepathy for weeks after. This was new in violence and intensity, and it seemed almost impossible for him to penetrate the impressions of the agony. Then suddenly Spock seemed to realise his presence, because he grabbed his hand and pressed it hard. 

‘Jim… Jim…’ 

’We need to call an ambulance,’ Jim said, taking command over the situation as well as his voice, which sounded less unsteady than it had felt. ‘I… something is very wrong, Spock. I’m still here, but I need to let go of you.’ Spock nodded minutely and slackened his grip of his hand. Reluctantly, he left his side and rushed to the comm consol, cursing that it was so far away. As he punched the screen, he desperately tried to concentrate while thoughts seemed to roar inside him. One part of him was at a complete loss at what was happening, another was painfully aware of what is must be. At last he heard a half-mechanic voice, which he could not say whether it belonged to a human or a machine. 

‘Please state your name, your address and the emergency in question.’ 

‘Name – James Kirk. Emergency - my bondmate, Spock, is very ill… I think he might be having a heart-attack. He’s conscious, but in pain. Address – Bay Street 27, fifth floor,’ he blurted, not minding that the information got in the wrong order. 

There was a moment of silence as what he had said was process, then the same half-human, half-mechanical voice answered. 

‘A medical vehicle will be arriving shortly. Please keep calm.’ The display flickered and went out as he was disconnected. For a moment he lingered at the comm, resisting kicking it while still trying to tell himself that help was truly on its way, but then he turned back when he heard a whimper again. 

‘Don’t move,’ he shouted when he realised that he was trying to sit up, still clutching at his heart. He rushed to him and, falling to his knees, ignoring how they objected to the treatment, he wrapped his arms around his bondmate, making him lean back. ‘There,’ he said, stroking his hair to soothe him. ‘It’s all right.’ Spock let his head roll against Jim’s chest, his face contorted with pain as he struggled for breath. Once again he spoke his name. 

‘Jim.’ 

‘I’m here,’ he assured him, tightening his grip around him as much as he dared. 

‘I’m dying,’ Spock said hoarsely. 

‘No, you’re not – you’ll be all right,’ Jim said firmly, resisting to beg him to be. Those words seemed impossible to say; the implication was too horrible. 

‘Stay,’ Spock whispered, fumbling for his hand. He took it and held it hard. The bond jerked to life at the contact of bare skin, and he could sense his pain and fear as if it were his only. 

‘I’m not leaving,’ was all he could say. In a flash, he remembered his old persuasion that he would die alone. Perhaps, if he stayed with Spock now… He did not dare to think of what might happen if he did not. The man in his arms did not speak; instead, he pressed his head against him and then let out another scream. He had surrendered completely to the pain; all constraints and controls were gone. Jim could only hold him, trying to keep him steady, as he seemed to writhe around the centre of the pain. He could not say for how long it went on. Although it must have been only minutes – it did not grow light and the clocks did not chime – it might as well have been hours. The despair he was feeling seemed far too great for such a short time, and the moments grew longer, as if the fear and anxiety was fighting to make their prison bigger. A myriad of thoughts possessed him, all revolving around the pain-wrecked creature in his embrace. He seemed like the picture of mortality where he lay, in far too much pain to bear, unable to breathe and possessed by fear which ran deeper than he could fathom. Jim had never seen Spock like that – he had never seen him reduced to such basic patterns. Fear for what was happening and what was to happen seized him, alongside with the emotion he hated most, helplessness. It had always in some sense been the two of them against the rest of the universe, and Jim had always needed Spock to be at his side. Now, he felt utterly out of control, without the power to do anything. There was nothing he could do for Spock now, short of holding him and trying to soothe him. He wondered if these were Spock’s emotions rather than his own, but still, there was no distinct difference between the two. They had always suffered together, and Jim felt the other man’s pain, not acutely as he did, but like a distant but real memory. He heard himself babbling, but there was little else he could do than repeat words which in themselves seemed inane – ‘it’s all right, I’m here, darling, they’ll be here any minute now, hold on, don’t worry, breathe, I’m here’ – hoping that love would penetrate through the fear in the bond. 

At last the door-bell sounded. He did not get up, but ordered the computer: 

‘Unlock and open front door.’ It slid open and three people, a petite paramedic and two paramedics who manouevered a stretcher. Although Jim looked at them when they came inside, all his real concentration was on the man in his arms. His whimpers had almost gone completely silent; it scared him more than the screaming.

‘I’m Jess,’ the girl – because she was only a girl, he realised now – said, came to his side and sat down as she opened her medkit. Half-way through the motion, she looked up and stopped. ‘He’s Vulcan,’ she said, as if startled. 

‘Half-Vulcan,’ Jim said almost automatically, unable to see why she sounded almost insulted. 

‘You didn’t mention that when you called,’ she observed and took out a medical scanner of the kit. Moving closer she ran it over Spock, who gasped with pain. ‘There, stay calm,’ she said with trained tenderness as she pried away his hand from his side, concentrating the scanner on the heart. Without stopping, she glanced up at the other man. ‘We need to lay him on his back,’ she said, and they both manouevered him into the position between them. Jim returned the grip of the hand he had let go of momentarily, while Jess undid the sash of the night-robe and pushed the pyjamas shirt up to scan more thoroughly, placing the device against his skin. ‘If you’d mentioned he was Vulcan, they’d have sent a xenomedic with the ambulance,’ she observed, still intent on her work. Jim felt a rush of anger against the girl. What was she trying to say – that he had killed Spock with his forgetfulness? It offended him, but perhaps she was right… He pushed the thought away again, but could not help feeling offended as she had said it right in front of Spock; that made it seem to his confused mind more like a threat than a rebuke. What she said next, although supposed to be calming, did not have the desired effect. 

‘It’ll take longer now, but I’ve got some basic training, so it’ll probably be fine,’ she muttered, reaching for a hypo. ‘Can’t give him some of the medication, though – we don’t have any for copper-based blood.’ Then she bent over Spock and spoke to him slightly too loudly, as if she were assuming he was hard of hearing. ‘Where’s the pain?’ He placed his hand over his heart and indicated how the pain spread across his abdomen and into his chest. ‘All right. Sounds like a heart-attack, but the scans are coming out a bit muddled. We’ll better get you to hospital now at once. I’ll just give you something for the pain.’ She injected the contents of the spray into his neck. Spock’s hand clenched for a moment around Jim’s, then relaxed as the anaesthetic took effect. His bondmate willed him to open his eyes and look at him to reassure him, but his features remained still. He felt the pain through the bond lessen, but the fear was still there, together with another emotion. Deep sadness was overtaking him – sorrow for all the things they would never have time to do, the moments that would be spent alone. Even as he heard the men with the stretcher approach, he took a better grip around the hand, leaned over him and said: 

‘You’ll be fine, Spock – please, don’t think that way.’ He only felt a finger twitching at his words. 

‘Could you please make room, sir,’ one of the paramedics said, sounding truly sorry. Reluctantly, Jim let go of the hand he was holding and backed away. He watched as they lifted him up with remarkable ease and started strapping him in place. ‘If you need anything, you’d better get it now, sir,’ the man said. For a brief second Jim thought that there was nothing he needed. Then he realised he was still in his pyjamas and with a quick look back at Spock he ran into the bedroom. Tearing off the bottoms, he put on the trousers he had had yesterday, and without removing the vest he had slept in, he put on a shirt which had not been hung into the closet yet. When he returned to the living-room, he was still buttoning it. One of the men was tucking a blanket around Spock, who seemed more still than before, while the other two paramedics were comparing scans. A moment after he had reentered, the team seemed to fall into formation. The men took their places behind and in front of the stretcher and lifted it, while the girl stayed close to the head of the patient. Jim crossed to them and fell in stride, resting his hand on Spock’s arm through the blanket. His breathing was uneven and his breath still caught with pain, but the anaesthetic was working. When he turned around and smiled at him, trying to seem reassuring, Jim thought he saw something changing in his half-open eyes. He tried to push the words _we’ll be fine_ through the bond as so many times since he awoke. Still he did not know how it would do, because this was not like when they had been younger and faced danger together. This danger was of another kind than any they had experienced; there was no fighting, no bravery and no sudden rescue to be counted on. As they started descending the stairs, helplessness set in again.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim watched as the paramedics lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance; all the time, the shape on it was obscured, but he sensed him acutely. When it seemed like one of the paramedics was about to ask him to come, he started moving, getting into the front of the vehicle. As the driver was getting in, a comm link beeped and Jess’ voice was heard. 

‘Alright, we’re set.’ 

‘Righto,’ the man said, turning the ignition key and switching on the sirens. As they drove out into the street, Jim glanced at the chronometre. Before then he had not thought that the time would be anything; the only time he had cared about had been how long they would have to wait for help. Now the bright numbers 1.39 penetrated the darkness. As they rushed through the city, he saw them changing. When they stopped outside the hospital, they had switched to 1.52. He reached for the door even before the driver did, but when he stepped out, they were already rolling the stretcher into the building. Jim hurried after, reeling from the flood of feelings. When he approached, one of the medics who must have been waiting for them turned and, catching sight of him, nodded. He wondered if it was because he understood that he was the next of kin or because he recognised who he was. That last thought unsettled him; such things gave him the strange feeling of being watched. Despite that the feeling was not an old one, he had never wished for anonymity more than now. The only identity he cared about now was the one which let him stay with Spock. He was afraid they would rush him away and not tell him what was going on, and he wished that he could come closer to him, even touch him to alert him of his presence. He could not, but neither did they attempt to lose him, but let him follow into an examination room. While several of the medtechs took to moving Spock off the trolley, one of the others – they were one big white mass and he could not say whether it was the same who had looked at him before or not – turned to him and asked: 

‘You’re the next of kin, right?’ He only nodded. ‘Good. There’ll be a doctor here soon.’ 

As they removed the stretcher, the room seemed less crowded, and the whiteness and the smell of antiseptic struck him. Only a few nurses remained, tinkering with the panels on the wall and taking blood-samples.   
‘It’s all right,’ one of them said, tipping his hand which was holding a few vials of green blood back and forth so it would not coagulate. ‘You can come closer.’ Giving him room, he left the side of the table. The shape on it seemed still at first, then his head started slowly to turn, which made Jim snap back into life. 

‘Hey,’ he said, rushing to his side and taking his hand. Spock blinked and then focused. For a few moments he watched him almost impassively, then the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were fighting a smile. Jim took his hand between his own and lifted it, placing it just under his chin. Had there not been people in the room, he would have kissed it. ‘How are you feeling?’ His eyes flickered shut, then he said weakly: 

‘Still… it is quite painful. I…’ Jim leaned over him, trying to hear what he said. ‘I can’t breathe,’ he heard him say and think at the same time. When he withdrew he had opened his eyes again, but his eye-lids were already fighting to fall. 

‘Spock – you have to keep awake,’ he urged him. 

‘The pain…’ He could not tell whether he heard his say it or if it was telepathy. Reluctantly he looked up from Spock and addressed one of the nurses in the room. 

‘Nurse, can you do something about the pain? He seems about to pass out from it.’ She checked something on a PADD by the table and then said: 

‘They’ve given him pretty high doses of morphine already – it’ll have to be for the doctor to decide, I’m afraid.’ 

‘What about the breathing? He says he can’t breathe.’ He was trying to keep the panic out of his voice, but was failing, because he felt Spock’s grip of his own hand harden with his own agitation. The nurse only pressed her lips together, looking apologetic. 

‘I’m sorry. The doctor should be here very soon.’ When Jim looked back, the Vulcan’s eyes opened again and his gaze sent a bolt of love and anxiety through him as it met his. _It’ll be fine,_ he thought, pressing his hand. He only noticed movement in the corner of his eye, but his attention was drawn when the nurse addressed Spock. ‘Captain, I need to take some more blood-samples…’ Wordlessly he offered her his free arm, while thinking through the bond: _With all probability I will bleed to death before anything else._ Jim chuckled at it, despite the morbidity of the statement. He was glad that he was strong enough to joke. Still, his relief disappeared when the nurse was done with the samples and Spock pressed his hand to his heart, as if to quench the pain. Once again he closed his eyes, and his breath caught in his throat. Jim was just about to ask the nurse to do something, when the door opened. An important-looking man came bursting in, a PADD held tightly in one hand, the other at his pocket where his tricorder was. 

‘I am Doctor Raulsson,’ he said as he approached the table and looked his patient up and down without sparing Jim as much as a glance. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘Spock,’ he said, the name reduced to a moan of pain. The doctor put the PADD down and looked at it.

‘Date of birth?’ Spock answered, giving first the Vulcan date, and then translated it into Standard and Stardate, all the time gasping from pain. ‘Place of birth?’ 

‘Shi’Kahr, Vulcan.’ For every syllable, a catching of breath. Jim could not help wondering if the doctor was ignoring the pain he was in or if he had not noticed it. Although he guessed he was trying to determine whether his patient was lucid, his obliviousness annoyed him. 

‘Very well,’ he said, turning away to prepare his instruments. ‘Remove his shirt, nurse.’ The nurse obeyed, and did it very efficiently, although Jim felt compelled to steady Spock’s shoulder when he raised himself slightly. The very effort seemed to exhaust him. When he lay down again, he was panting. The doctor moved in again, placing a cardioscanner on his side, and studied the panel on the wall. The light indicating pulse was blinking furiously but without any consistency. The numbers by the light kept changing anywhere between 124 to 340. ‘What is the nature of the pain?’ he asked raptly. The answer was slow and quiet. 

‘Pressure around the heart… radiating…. into the right leg… and upwards, into the chest.’ He moved his hand, and reluctantly Jim let go of it, watching how he drew his fingers over where the pain was. Taking up a scanner, the doctor asked: 

‘Is this the first occurrence of the symptoms?’ 

‘There was a vague… discomfort in the right leg yesterday, but no more.’ The way Spock spoke of it scared Jim – his reluctance to speak in the first person was strangely distressing. As he took his hand again, he felt how he let out a laboured breath and struggled to draw another. In the corner of his eye, Jim saw the respiration light flicker. 

‘Would you _please_ do something for him?’ he exclaimed. ‘He can’t breathe!’ The doctor looked up, as if he had just noticed his presence. 

‘Who are you?’ _To hell with Vulcan terminology no one understood, and to hell with tact._

‘I’m his husband,’ Jim threw back at him. ‘Now will you do something about the fact that he can barely breathe?’ The doctor gave him a searing look, but turned to the nurse. 

‘Fetch oxygen and give him five milligrams of tri-ox compound, nurse. And get Doctor Takka.’ As the nurse nodded and left the room. Spock touched Jim’s hand and whispered: 

‘ _T’hy’la_ , control your temper. It is most distressing to see you in such a state.’ 

‘Distressing?’ he repeated and laughed incredulously. ‘You have no idea.’ 

‘You know that is incorrect,’ Spock said, extending two fingers. Jim returned the gesture and then took his hand as the nurse brought a mask for the oxygen. Then, the door opened again and a young Andorian woman in a doctor’s white coat entered. 

‘Sir, you’ll have to step back…’ one of the nurses said, and the newly arrived doctor approached the table as he backed away. He watched as she and Doctor Raulsson started examining and discussing; in his mind Spock seemed barely conscious, be it from the pain or from the medicine, administered so often that the hiss of the hyposprays was as common as the murmur of urgent voices. A few times the Andorian turned her head and looked at him, her alien eyes unreadable, only to turn back to her work quickly. Soon, more people entered and Spock was completely obscured by the crowd. Words Jim could only vaguely discern were heard – _arrythmia, catecholamines, cordrazine,_ and he felt strangely at loss. Suddenly he wished himself back on the _Enterprise_ , with the familiar hum of the engines enveloping him, soothing him like a mother’s heart soothes an unborn child. That tritanum shell had been the womb which had protected him and let him grow in peace, encompassing him and keeping the horrors of the vacuum inside. Now the ground beneath him and the atmosphere surrounding him seemed abhorrent to him, as if it were the reason for all this. On the _Enterprise_ , they would have been safe. Here, among strangers, safety seemed as far away as the ship he longed for. For a split second he wished Bones were there – he would happily have left Spock in his hands. Drawing away would not be so hard. Now it hurt every fiber in his body when he had to step away from the table and let go of his hand. Every time the doctors conferred amongst themselves, he was afraid they would make him leave. 

‘What was that?’ Jim saw the Andorian bending over Spock to hear what he said. A moment later, she turned, addressing him. ‘He wants to talk to you.’ He went forward; his footsteps to the table were quick and undignified, and his grip around his hand perhaps too hard.

‘Spock?’ he whispered and saw his lips move under the oxygen mask, but could not hear anything. Instead he lifted the hand he held and pressed the fingers to his face. Spock did not have to say the words – at once they were drawn into one another. 

_I am afraid,_ the mind intertwining with his admitted. _I am afraid, although I do not wish to admit it. Death is nothing I want to experience again. I do not want to leave you –_ t’hy’la, _Jim – it is not the way it should be. We should still have time – for great things, and for trivial things. Human things. Why now? I only wish to stay. This is no sacrifice – this will do you no good. I would gladly die to save you again, but this…_

‘Don’t,’ Jim intoned, startling the people around him by speaking out loud. ‘I won’t let it happen.’ He suppressed the thought which was fighting to get to the surface – _but it is nothing I have any influence over._

_I could not stand to leave you – even if I were to return… Jim, I would not bear to forget._

‘You’ll be alright,’ he whispered. ‘You _will_ be.’ He felt a hand on his arm; first he could not tell whether it were really his or Spock’s, then he realised the sensation was his own. _Release me,_ he thought, letting his thoughts stroke against Spock’s to comfort him. Then the meld was concluded, and he brought the hand down carefully before turning to the person who had wanted his attention. It was the Andorian. 

‘If I may speak to you,’ she said, her head and antennae inclining away from the examination table. He followed her a little way from it. 

‘Doctor Takka, was it?’ he asked. She nodded and gave him her full name: 

‘Mer’Takka she’Thras – I’m the xeno-cardiologist. And I know your name already, captain Kirk.’ 

‘Doctor, how is my bondmate?’ Jim said, trying not to sound rude but probably failing. Her body language supplied some of the answer; she looked down momentarily and her shoulders were pulled forward as her antennae almost flattened themselves against her white hair. 

‘We will need to operate,’ she then said. ‘As soon as possible, but we need the blood-banks to clear it.’ 

‘The paramedic said it seemed like a heart-attack...’ Takka interrupted him. 

‘Well, it _is_ a heart-attack, but… more complex than usual,’ she explained. ‘It’s no doubt connected to his hybrid physiology. There is a history of heart disease in his family, isn’t there? On the Vulcan side?’ 

‘Yes, his father,’ Jim answered, remembering the incident before the Babel conference and quickly calculated how long ago it must be. ‘But Spock’s so young,’ he said suddenly. ‘He’s only seventy-one – his father was well over a hundred…’ Takka sighed. 

‘Again, probably his mixed heritage is the reason. What is puzzling is that there is occlusion of some coronary arteries, which is most like a heart attack in a human, as well as a malfunction in one of the heart valves, which has occurred in his Vulcan family.’ Brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she continued: ‘This will mean that the treatment will be quite complicated – the operation especially. My colleagues and I can handle cryogenic open-heart surgery of the kind which is used in Vulcan cases, but the occlusion…’ She shrugged and dipped her antennae to illustrate her inability to deal with that situation. ‘We’ll have to call in human surgeons for that. The procedure will be complicated and extended – it’ll take at least five hours -, but if we can start within the next fifteen minutes, the odds will be in our favour, or at least that would be my guess. We just need the blood-banks to clear it.’ 

‘Can I stay with him until then?’ he asked; she nodded, compassion visible in her eyes. 

‘All we’re going now is trying to keep him stable.’ Jim did not even bother answering, but only turned back to Spock. As he took his hand, he noticed he was conscious, but his eyes were closed and he had turned away his face, as if he knew that the sight of it half-obscured by the oxygen mask disturbed him. The light touch of fingers made the world around them slow down, and, closing his eyes, he almost felt at peace with his mind so close to him. They did not speak, but only felt in unison, communicating things which were beyond words. The slam of a door brought him back. 

‘The blood bank’s got eight litres of T negative Vulcan blood in store,’ the medtech who had just entered announced. 

‘Then we’re in business,’ one of the doctors concluded, and another took Jim’s arm to price him away from Spock. He stayed a little longer, smiled and pressed his hand. 

‘You heard? They can operate – you’ll be fine,’ he said, and a silent acknowledgement was heard in his mind. At that, he backed off and let the doctors get to work to prepare him for surgery. Not wanting to be in the way, he backed into a corner; a medtech or two eyed him suspiciously, but let him stay. When they moved Spock onto a gurney, Jim started approaching. Those present left the room and they started manoeuvring him out. In the corridor, Jim was able to fall in pace by the side of the trolley, intent to follow him as far as he could. They had dressed him in a hospital gown now and removed the oxygen, but there was an IV in his arm and on the other side of the gurney, a medic was scanning without interruption. They had placed the patient’s arms over the blanket, so Jim placed his own hand over his in an attempt to soothe him. Spock’s dark eyes were concentrated on him; he felt his fear of leaving him, and he tried his best to make him feel safe. Despite the emergency of the situation, Jim felt calmer than he had a few minutes ago. That something was being done about it all made it feel a little less hopeless, even though all he could do was walk with them. Still he saw worry pass past Spock’s eyes. In answer, he pressed his hand and projected yet another, _it’s all right, you’ll be fine_. For now, he made himself believe it – he could not let himself be pessimistic, not when Spock was here and could feel what his thoughts. 

At length the trolley came to a halt and one of the nurses turned to Jim. 

‘I’m afraid you can’t come any further. There’s a relatives’ room over there, were you may want to wait.’ He nodded minutely and then turned to Spock; he was not going to let them take him away before he spoke to him. 

‘I’ll be there when you wake up,’ he said, taking his hand between both of his. His voice came out sounding broken, revealing all his love and worry and fear. Not finding the words, he simply pressed his hand hard, and felt the grasp being answered weakly. _I’ve lost you so many times – I don’t want it to happen again,_ he thought, but shielded it from the bond. 

‘ _T’hy’la_ – Jim,’ Spock whispered and with what seemed an immense effort did two things: first he smiled, in his own Vulcan way, then he raised his other hand put it to his face, but positioning his fingers in another way than usual – his little finger under his eye, his three middle finger over his temple, and the thumb on his jaw. Jim had never felt that grip, but he had seen it been done once, on security footage from the engine-room of the old _Enterprise_. Forcefully, he priced the hand away from his face. 

‘No,’ he said forcefully, fighting a bout of anger which coursed through him. ‘It’s not come to that. You’ll be fine.’ Then dropping his voice, he said: ‘You have to be fine.’ 

‘Sir…’ one of the medtechs said impatiently beside him. Ignoring him, Jim leaned forward and kissed Spock on the lips, at the same time pressing their fingers together. He looked at him and in that process said everything which would take too long to actually say. Spock returned the gaze; his emotions were plain in his eyes. He pressed his hand one final time, and understanding that his delay might be fatal, he stepped back. At once, the medics started moving again, faster this time. As they went through the doors where they had stopped, he saw Spock’s head falling back onto the cushion, from exhaustion or loss of consciousness he could not tell. Soon only the swinging of the doors was heard, the sound abating slowly as they stopped. With a strange, sinking feeling inside him, he went into the relatives’ room they had pointed out to him. As he sat down and waited, the chronometre on the wall turned 3.06.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim could not find peace. First pacing around the room and then slumping down onto the sofa, he covered his face, he fought back tears, he touched the bond. Everything seemed to no avail. The same empty, dampened feeling seemed to envelop him. It was if some part of him – his foot or his arm – had fallen asleep and he was unable to shake away the unpleasant non-feeling, but instead of the feeling coming from his body, it emerged from his mind. The bond was intact, but it was as if there was no one on the other side to answer him. Trying to ignore the mental pins and needles, he thought through the last few days in an attempt to find something which had indicated that something had been wrong. Why had he ascribed Spock’s fatigue so readily to his work and lack of sleep? And if he had felt that something was wrong, even if it was just an ache in his leg, why had he not told him? (Still, although it was no comfort at all, it had not been as with Sarek, who had kept his disease completeley from his spouse until he had collapsed in her presence.) Someone came and offered him coffee; he declined. He continued to go over recent events. What if they had not gotten Spock to surgery fast enough – and if they had not, had it been because of him? Perhaps he should have made them bring a xenomedic with the ambulance; surely his forgetfulness was no excuse. Perhaps he should have let them start the surgery sooner and not insisted to talk to Spock. Perhaps he had agitated him with his own worry… Still he felt nothing through the bond. He was exhausted and felt his hands shake with exertion, but could not get himself to go to sleep. Instead, he started looking at the chronometre all the time, and when that became too stressful, attempted to ignore it all-together. 

Then his gaze fell on a comm-console in the corner, obviously for the use of relatives. It suddenly occurred to him that no one else knew what had happened. _Bones_ did not know what had happened. Jim looked at the chrono again; to his amazement, it just turned 6.10. He had been waiting for over three hours without noticing it. Rather it had seemed like days. Ten past six was not too early to call, he decided, and sat down by the comm-console. He did not even have to think to dial; the code seemed secured in his fingers. A light went in a circle on the screen, waiting for a reply. Then there was a beep and the dark screen sprang into light, displaying McCoy blinking sleep out of his eyes. 

‘Hi, Bones.’

‘Jim?’ he said blearily, stifling a yawn. ‘What the hell…?’ Then he stopped, suddenly snapping into wakefulness. ‘You’re not calling from home. Where are you?’ One could see him fighting cold realisation. 

‘I’m at the hospital,’ Jim said, his voice raw and emotional. McCoy’s eyes went wide. ‘It’s Spock…’ 

‘What’s happened? Which ward are you in?’ 

‘Surgery,’ he started, answering the second question first, and was just about to explain, when McCoy disappeared out of sight and he heard him shouting, before signing off: 

‘I’ll be right there!’ The screen went dark. Jim paused and stared at it for a few moments, then rested his head in his hands. The events of the night came rushing back to him suddenly, and he did not know whether he dreaded or needed to speak of them. He stayed like that only a few minutes, but still he had not risen when he heard that familiar voice say his name. 

‘Jim?’ He looked up and saw McCoy entering the room looking deathly pale. He stood up and found himself grabbed by the shoulders. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded to know. 

‘Spock,’ he started, having to swallow back tears; he hated crying even in front of Bones. ‘He’s in surgery – he’s had a heart-attack …’ 

‘Oh hell,’ McCoy said, then manoeuvered him to the sofa. After making him sit down, he took a seat beside him and after a moment of compassionate silence, he asked: ‘How did it happen?’ Jim rubbed his face and then told him. 

‘He woke me – he must have been up wandering around the apartment. He does that sometimes; when he can’t sleep, he likes going into the living-room to look at the stars… I found him there…’ Once again he felt a hand on his shoulder, pressing as if to keep him from falling apart. ‘I’ve never seen him in so much pain.’ He looked away, trying to collect himself. 

‘When did you get here?’ 

‘About two,’ he answered. 

‘Good God, why didn’t you let me know at once?’ Bones exclaimed, but only pressed his shoulder harder. 

‘I don’t know – I couldn’t think of anything else than… him. Oh God, Bones, it....’ 

‘He’s in the best place he could be now,’ the old doctor intoned, trying to instill calm into him. ‘He’s being taken care of.’ 

‘I can’t feel him,’ Jim blurted out. He had not meant to tell him; in fact, speaking of the bond was nothing he tend to do – it was far too intimate – but this wanted out. ‘It’s like he’s not there at all…’ 

‘He’s sedated,’ McCoy said. 

‘I ought to be able to feel him anyway – there should be a presence,’ he snapped. 

‘They’ve drugged him to impair his telepathic abilities,’ he explained, making Jim regret having spoken so harshly. ‘You can’t perform surgery on touch-telepaths otherwise – the bombardment of thoughts would be too much, it would drive him mad. It’ll wear off a few hours after they’ve finished. When did they start, anyway?’ 

‘Just after three o’clock,’ he answered, resting his face in his hands again. 

‘Then they won’t be done for a few hours,’ McCoy concluded, looking at the chrono and getting to his feet. ‘Let’s get some breakfast – I guess you’ve hadn’t had anything since you came here.’ Jim shook his head to show that he was right, but did not stand up. 

‘What if…?’ 

‘You’d know, wouldn’t you?’ Bones said far too silently. Jim nodded mutely. ‘Then come on – don’t worry. You need coffee.’ He knew that he was right, and could not find any other good arguments against it. Still, it hurt to leave the room and the doors through which they had taken Spock. He shielded himself from the sudden despair and followed his friend down to the diner, which seemed just to have opened. McCoy did not even ask him if he had any credits on him, but paid for his coffee and sandwich. None of them seemed to have much appetite as they sat in silence in the canteen, which seemed oversized when it was empty. 

‘I forgot to tell them he was half-Vulcan when I called for the ambulance,’ he admitted suddenly. ‘I didn’t even think about it. I’m so sick of anything starting with “xeno” – the way humans are the norm. But if I had – _said_ it, they would have been able to diagnose him quicker…’ 

‘Don’t guilt-trip yourself,’ Bones said, putting his sandwich down. ‘You were agitated. I’m sure it didn’t do any harm.’ 

‘The paramedic made it sound as if it did,’ he commented dully, and his friend snorted. 

‘Paramedics are notoriously overdramatic,’ he snorted. ‘Don’t mind them – you’re not to blame.’ Jim tried to ignore how he made it sound as if there were something he could take the blame for. 

‘At first they didn’t seem to know what was wrong – I think the scans didn’t make sense,’ he told him to fill the air. ‘Then… I didn’t understand it properly, but I think that he had both human and Vulcan symptoms – there was something with the heart-valve and an… occlusion.’ The old doctor lifted an eyebrow. 

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he sighed, as if he was trying to picture it. ‘That must make surgery pretty complicated.’

‘They said as much,’ the other man answered. They were silent for a moment, and then another worry rose in him. ‘Just before they took him into surgery, he tried to – place his _katra_ in me.’ McCoy looked up, suddenly stunned. Jim touched his own face, sprawling his fingers as Spock had done, as if to illustrate. ‘I – refused. Said it wouldn’t come to that.’ He had to swallow to keep his voice from breaking, but it was still hoarse when he spoke. ‘What if he dies now, during surgery, when he’s sedated, when he can’t mind-meld? Then… then I’ve killed him, Bones.’ For a moment McCoy looked at him, then grabbed his arm hard. 

‘No, that’s not true,’ he said, his voice also thick with emotion. 

‘How can we know he’ll survive?’ Jim demanded. 

‘I… Jim, have some faith, for goodness’ sake!’ He stopped, thought it over and then sighed deeply. 

‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Bones, I just… I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.’ He chewed his lip for a moment, staring into his coffee, and then said: ‘He said that he wouldn’t bear forgetting me again. Do you think that if he… managed to place his _katra_ in someone, that the refusion would be possible again?’ McCoy seemed to consider it. 

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘The link between his mind and his body has been weakened ever since the _fal-tor-pan_. Perhaps a second one would only make that link even weaker, so it snapped. I don’t know about the body either – last time, it was regenerated by that god-forsaken Genesis effect, so it was completely functional, but…’ He interrupted himself and seemed to decide to be honest. ‘Jim, he’s old - it’s unlikely that his _katra_ and his body would be able to bear the strain again.’ 

‘He’s not old,’ Jim interjected. ‘He’s only seventy-one – that might be a lot for a human, but it’s not for a Vulcan…’ 

‘It’s a lot for a Vulcan-human hybrid,’ McCoy said matter-of-factly. The other man stopped and closed his mouth, petrified by the comment. The doctor just sighed and scratched his head. ‘It’s a harsh truth, Jim, but we’ve always known that sooner or later, his hybrid genes would mess it up for him. We’ve just not known when – there’s nothing to compare with. Up till now, he’s been surprisingly well – apart from being allergic to a few medicines and having a slightly irregular hormonal cycle, he’s been fine. So much could have gone wrong – cellular mutations, immune system-related things…’ 

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Jim said, not even trying to seem content. ‘Shall I just accept that he’s had a good life and therefore, it’s best to… let him go? Just let them euthanize him?’ 

‘I’m not saying that,’ the doctor snapped back. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry, Jim.’ The other man sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling immensely old. Being a starship captain and seeing new worlds seemed like a different life, one lived by another man than the one who sat in the diner of a hospital, waiting to know whether his husband would live or not. McCoy spoke again. ‘There’s always the risk with these kinds of things that something goes wrong – you should know that, and I think you do – but I don’t see any reason to resign yourself to it. Honestly, if they’ve gotten him through three hours of surgery, he’s more than likely to survive the rest of it.’ That, at least, was comforting. In these kinds of situations he needed Bones to give him his dry, slightly cynical take on things, but in some way he would still manage to be wildly passionate about it. The other person he needed for support, granting him that rational thinking, philanthropic values, and well-hidden wit, was lying under the hands of strangers, opened up and heavily sedated. Once again the non-feeling in his mind became palpable, even if he barely bore thinking about it. 

McCoy broke the silence after a few minutes. 

‘You know it won’t be easy afterwards, don’t you?’ he said, warming his knobbly hands to the dull, white coffee cup. In this setting, all his years showed on his face. ‘It’s an ordeal, taking care of someone who’s ill, when they mean that much to you.’ 

‘I understand that,’ Jim answered. None of them said the name of the one they were thinking of. Had McCoy still been dealing with the death of his father, they would have spoken of it, but he had accepted that decades ago. This wound was fresher and tenderer by far. His friend continued pretending that it did not exist. 

‘I’ll help with whatever I can, of course,’ he added, and the other man smiled. 

‘Thanks, Bones. I appreciate that.’ 

‘The least I can do,’ he said, perhaps slightly embarrassed. They sat in silence for a while, until McCoy put his cup down. ‘C’mon, let’s get back.’ Jim was grateful that he had come with the suggestion first, drained his coffee and followed him back through the antiseptic maze of the hospital. The doctor found his way around well, as if all hospitals were the same in make-up, and Jim was content to let himself be lead. Soon they were back in the relatives’ room, which embraced them with its eerie silence. In unison they sat down in the sofa provided; neither of them spoke, but let their thoughts wander. Jim inspected the room, with its occasional picture print of a landscape, the little table with a kettle and a battered biscuit tin, the missmatched chairs which seemed to be placed there to make the room homier. He could not see how the place could seem so depressing and ominous, despite the effort that had been put into it to counteract it. At last he could not bear to look at the painting on the wall opposite them anymore, and took to probing the bond and watching the chronometre. While the bond seemed as strangely distant as before, the chrono changed its numbers slowly. When it turned 7:14, he said: 

‘They should be done – they said five hours.’ 

‘It can take much longer than that – there’s no way of saying,’ McCoy answered, his face turned the other way, looking out of the window. It led to a small court, and one could mostly see the brick-wall on the other side. Even that seemed unsettling, so Jim went back to the chrono. He almost counted the seconds between the minutes. It became a mantra, and with every number he tried to reach Spock and failed. He was still there, but completely isolated from him. A sudden wave of loneliness washed over him, and he remembered the silence which had encompassed him in engineering when he had seen Spock slumping against the glass wall which separated them. _If it has to happen this time, at least let me be there,_ he thought, not knowing whether he was begging Spock through the bond or turning to some god he did not believe in anymore. 

The chrono turned 8.00. McCoy yawned and stretched his arms. Jim was deep in thought, thinking of their petty plans to go to Paris, which had been so brutally interrupted. Something snapped him back to reality – footsteps. He looked up and saw the young Andorian doctor entering the room, her beetle-like eyes dark with exhaustion. 

‘Captain Kirk,’ she said, almost as if enquiring of his identity. He stood up, feeling a fist seize his heart. He could not tell from her face what news she had. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘I came to inform you that the surgery was successful,’ she said, fragments of a smile entering her eyes. 

Jim did not understand the semantics of the statement until he felt McCoy grabbing his shoulders and laughing from behind his back. The hand of fear relaxed its grip as relief and weariness flooded him. 

‘Can I see him?’ he asked. He did not even care that his voice was so hoarse and filled with emotion; for a moment, he felt that there was no longer a care in the world. 

‘Shortly,’ she answered, avoiding a no. ‘Please come with me.’ Her antennas twitched and pointed the way they were going. McCoy fell in step with him and they followed her through the corridors, away from the operating theatres and to the xenomedic ward, where she showed them into a small office. Sitting them down, she explained the procedure to the nodding doctor and the relieved husband. She gave them an entire account of the process; the nature of the cut, how they had sawn through the ribs, what they had done to the obstructed blood-vessels and damaged heart-valve, how they had closed him. McCoy asked a few questions, but Jim did not seem to be able to process any more information than that Spock was alive. When his friend at last had fallen silent, he asked again: 

‘Can I see him?’ Now the Andorian did smile and gestured to them to follow her. 

‘It is not far,’ she explained and showed them to a room only a few doors down the corridor. Before going inside, Jim glanced at McCoy, who only nudged him in the back. Heeding the unspoken command, he stepped into the room, surrendering himself to his senses. 

The blinds were half-drawn, making the room hold its own dusk, trapped from the morning sun. The panels above the bed glowed furiously. He noticed the pulse indicator blinking until it almost became a blur. Before leaving, Takka adjusted the blinds so that the light flooded the room; only then did the shape in the bed materialise for him.   
He was extraordinarily pale; the bloodless skin almost looked grey in the unforgiving light. The rise and fall of his chest was small but even. His hair, which was always so neat, was mussed around his forehead, which seemed to add more to the image of ill-health than even the big bed and the oxygen mask did. Tentatively, Jim sat down by the bedside and took his hand. It disturbed him that the bond did not react at the touch; it made the hand seem like a stranger’s, who had taken Spock’s form. _He’d tell me I was being illogical, if he could hear me,_ he thought and reached out to smooth the fringe over his forehead. When he removed his hand from the Vulcan’s head, it caught something. He had to stand up to see what it was; a spider made up of tubes was lodged just by his collar-bone, leading up to the containers of medicine which were being slowly administered. When he noticed that, Jim realised that he still had an IV in one of his arms, and the hand he was not holding was trapped in a blood transfusion unit. His joy to see his bondmate again had at first made him blind for these details at first, but now he seemed to notice the full extent of his debility. For a moment, to Jim the equipment looked like claws holding him down. Shaking off the disturbing image, he turned to McCoy and gave him a questioning look. 

The old doctor had come closer to the bed, but seemed strangely restless. After a while, he started pacing the room, but every time he came to the head of the bed, he stopped to look at the readings, a familiar crease forming between his brows. Once he even bent over Spock and felt his pulse. At last he sighed and sat down in a corner, chin resting on fist. Jim could guess what he felt; although it had not happened often, every time had been in space since he retired he had felt completely out of control as he was not in command. In the same way, McCoy must feel helpless in this setting, where he was used to being a professional.   
Jim returned to holding Spock’s hand, watching his face and trying not to glance at the readings above the bed. It proved hard; the light and pointers were quite tantalizing in their brightness. At last he broke the silence. 

‘He’s not in his trance.’ McCoy changed the way he sat and said: 

‘He can’t achieve it without his telepathic abilities. Probably he’ll go onto it when the medication wears off.’ 

‘When will that happen?’ 

‘In a few hours, probably. It depends on the dosages they gave him and what kind of narcosis they used.’ He sighed and got to his feet. ‘It drives me ‘round the bend, not knowing these kinds of things.’ He moved to the foot of the bed and leaned on it, the crease in his forehead deepening as he watched the patient. Before Jim could offer him any words of consolation to dampen his frustration, he said: ‘You do know he’s still very weak, don’t you?’ 

‘Doctor Takka seemed to think he was fine.’ 

‘Well, she was being very over-optimistic,’ McCoy admitted. ‘She was right about that the danger was over for this time…’ 

‘Do you think it’ll happen again?’ 

‘There’s no way of knowing,’ he exclaimed, starting pacing once again. ‘There are too many variables.’ 

‘You said you didn’t know enough, and now you’re passing judgments,’ Jim said, trying not to let irritation seep into his voice. 

‘I know enough to analyse the situation,’ he answered a little too quickly. 

‘Bones, these people know what they’re doing…’ 

‘Well, I hope they do,’ McCoy said, slumping as if giving up. ‘I just keep thinking they’ll mess it up – not read his file properly, give him some medicine which isn’t compatible with his physiology, just… _fail_ …’ Jim could not bear to answer; he had thought that too many times during the long wait. Instead he said: 

‘When do you think he’ll wake up?’ 

‘It depends on the narcosis again. If his telepathy recovers first, he might even not regain full consciousness first but go directly into his healing trance.’ He tried to make himself think of that as a good thing; he knew how badly Spock needed the trance, but at the same time he wanted to hear his voice, just for a moment. That would calm him, and after this night he felt the need for that as a child needs a comforting embrace after a nightmare. 

Soon, McCoy stood up and announced that he was going for a walk. Jim only nodded assent; the thought of some time on his own with Spock was welcome, and he started feeling his friend’s frustration tearing at him. When the door closed, he started to speak out loud – had Spock not been drugged, he would have sent the thoughts through the bond, but now that was not a possibility. 

‘I’ve been so worried for you. Spock, I… I’m glad you’re okay – that’s all that matters. At least I _think_ you’re okay – they all seem to say different things.’ He fell silent for a moment, feeling stupid, but then he took a new hold of his hand and continued. ‘When you get better, we’ll go and see that exhibition you wanted to see. It’ll be great.’ The words seemed hollow, but he tried to make his voice steady as if that would give them more meaning. Suddenly the thought of McCoy’s pessimistic comments came back to him. ‘You’ll get better. Spock - please, be all right,’ he whispered and leaned forward to kiss his face; had it not been for the oxygen mask, he would have kissed him on the lips. ‘You have to,’ he continued without drawing away. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.’ He tried desperately not to think of that damned month eighteen years ago and of the struggle to keep himself from falling apart. A part of him had died with Spock, and he had fought not to be drawn in with it. He did not know whether he could resist again if it came to that, but he would not let it do so. Surely, there was always a way.


	4. Chapter 4

Within the hour, McCoy came back, carrying two paper cups with strong but old coffee. Jim accepted one of them thankfully, even if the taste had gone somewhat stale. His eyelids had started to feel heavy, but he was determined not to leave yet. Now, McCoy did not sit down in the corner but settled by the other side of the bed, watching the unconscious Vulcan with an impassive face. Occasionally, a nurse would come in and look over the readings or change the dosage of some medicine. She could not answer when he would wake up, but provided Bones with details on the sedation when Jim had told her he was family. When he had eyed through the PADD, all he could say was: 

‘It’s tricky – I never used these drugs on him, so I don’t know how they work. They’re standard for Vulcans, but he probably wouldn’t react in exactly the same way. Damned annoying.’ 

By twelve o’clock, the touch of Spock’s hand started feeling more alive, but Jim could still not feel him properly through the bond. Still, McCoy got to his feet and prodded him on the shoulder. 

‘C’mon, lunch.’ 

‘I want to stay until he wakes up,’ Jim answered, not looking at his friend. 

‘It won’t be in at least another half hour, considering how these readings look,’ McCoy said. ‘You need food, Jim, or you won’t be any good for him.’ He knew that was true, so he grudgingly complied, kissing Spock and whispering, ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ to him. Then he let McCoy march him out of the room and to the cafeteria. 

***

The lunch was not much more intriguing than the coffee Bones had brought earlier on. Jim listlessly poked his ham sandwich – he had thought that having something non-vegetarian would cheer him up, as it usually did, but it only reminded him of the man they had left in the hospital bed – and McCoy sipped the meat soup, which he claimed was rather good, ‘under the circumstances.’ Neither of them said anything until Jim broke the silence. 

‘He said that pessimism was uncalled for.’ The other man sighed and said after a moment: 

‘Don’t read anything into it, Jim.’ 

‘Should I have… noticed that something was happening?’ 

‘These things usually don’t give much warning, and if they did – how could you have known?’ McCoy said. ‘You might think you’ve seen signs, but at the time, they might have been anything.’ They finished their lunch in silence and then returned. When they entered the room, a nurse was by the bed, writing something down on a PADD. When they came inside, she looked up and smiled. 

‘He’ll probably be waking up soon,’ she said, answering the unasked question. 

‘How is he?’ Jim inquired as he sat down by the bedside again, noticing to his surprise that they had removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with a thin tube running under his nose. The blood-transfusion unit was gone as well. The nurse looked over the readings for a moment and said: 

‘It’s hard to tell this short after surgery; some of the readings are a bit low, but everything’s stable.’ He nodded thank you to her and took Spock’s hand again. It still lacked the telepathic tingle, and his mind did not quite come up to meet his. Despite that, he noticed certain changes in his bondmate over the next half-hour. His breathing deepened, a certain tension crept through the muscles of his hand, and his face started moving slightly. From his seat by the bed, he watched Spock waking. His lips moved a few times, his fingers tensed and at last his eyes opened, then closed. They did this several times until he seemed to fully come to his senses and the hand Jim was holding grasped his. Spock turned his dark eyes to him and mouthed his name, but all that was heard was a hoarse murmur. Jim made him release his hand and poured a glass of water from the decanter on the bedside table. With one hand under his head he put the glass to his lips, and he drank greedily. Then he lowered the glass and looked him in the eye. 

‘God, I’m happy to see you,’ he whispered, fighting tears of relief. 

‘Jim,’ Spock whispered and tried to raise his hand probably to touch his face, but Jim grabbed it. 

‘Don’t move, darling, just stay still. You’re still very weak.’ Then he felt emotion overtaking him and the protective, strong persona he had tried to build up while waiting for him to wake up break. He leaned over him, kissed his forehead and rested his cheek on his head ‘I’ve been so worried for you, Spock,’ he whispered at last. The clasp around his hand tightened. 

‘Jim – I cannot feel you.’ He drew back at the sound of panic in the Vulcan’s voice. Spock looked at him through half-open eyes, seeming to search his face for something. 

‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ he said, trying to assure him. ‘They drugged you before surgery – it’ll come back soon. I’m here.’ He pressed his hand and stroked his hair, but knew it would do little to calm him. His agitation was not surprising. For Jim, not being able to feel the bond was strange, even unpleasant, but it was still only a minor inconvenience. For Spock, being deprived of his telepathic abilities was like waking up to find that one had gone blind; despite the intimate nature of touch-telepathy, it was crucial to his perception of the world and especially of Jim. He was accustomed to feeling his thoughts as well as perceiving him through other senses, which he shared by humans, and thus the removal of any sense would make the image flat. The thought chilled Jim; at the moment, Spock saw him just as any other person would, without the layers of consciousness and thought beyond him. ‘I’m here,’ he said again and kissed the back of his hand. ‘I’m staying right here.’ 

‘Was the… procedure successful?’ he asked slowly, as if using his voice was something he would rather not do. Even that seemed to weaken him; Jim wished they could meld instead. 

‘Yes, it went fine,’ he said. ‘They’ll tell you about it in a bit. Bones is here as well – he’s been keeping me company.’ The Vulcan nodded minutely, letting his eyes close at the same time as his hand pressed his harder. For a fleeting moment, Jim feared he was slipping back into unconsciousness or something worse, but then he realised how very tired the man was. 

At that moment, the door opened and a nurse came in, followed by a doctor. They had not met him last night; for a fleeting moment, Jim thought that those doctors must all be asleep at this point, if they had any sense. 

‘Ah, Captain Spock. Good morning, I guess,’ the doctor, a young Terran with unruly hair said. ‘I’m Doctor McGivers. How are you feeling?’ He came to sit down on the side of the bed which McCoy had left. 

‘Fatigued and slightly disorientated,’ Spock answered, opening his eyes again. Kirk let go of his hand for the time being; it was a gesture which was far too intimate to flaunt. ‘I believe I had not been… informed of the telepathy-suppressing drugs I was given.’ 

‘They probably mentioned it,’ McGivers said diplomatically. 

‘I must admit that I was not altogether accountable at the time,’ he admitted. The doctor smiled nervously at it, as if he did not understand whether to expect a joke or not. 

‘The telepathy isn’t back, then?’ he asked, looking at him as if he would be able to find the answer in his face. 

‘No, not to any great extent,’ Spock answered and let his fingers brush against Jim’s. ‘It is complicating certain aspects of communication.’ The young man’s eyes flickered to his patient’s bondamte for a moment with a look bordering on embarrassment and then said: 

‘It will wear off, but we don’t know how long it will take – at most until tomorrow. As soon as you can, you need to go into a healing trance, as it is pretty taxing for your body to heal itself like this.’ Spock nodded minutely. ‘Now, there was not much time to explain the procedure before the operation…’ He gave an explanation similar to Takka’s. Jim only half-listened; the thought of Spock laid bare and opened up like that bordered on being physically nauseating. When he went on to speak of the kinds of medicines they would give him later on he managed to listen and McCoy came closer, also intent to hear. When McGivers paused, the old doctor took the opportunity to ask: 

‘What about his immune system?’ Jim gave him a quizzical look, and he explained: ‘Most of the human components in his blood are immunological, but the transfusions were from full-blooded Vulcans, and I’m guessing he was given enough to replace his hybrid blood completely for the time being. But the immunological components in the Vulcan blood will be completely useless to him.’ 

‘Yes, certainly,’ the young man said slowly, turning to Spock. ‘That means your immune system will be weakened, but it’ll recover in a few weeks.’ 

At this point, Jim decided to voice the question he had been wondering ever since he had been told the operation had been successful. 

‘When can he go home?’ The doctor lost control of his facial expression for a moment and for a moment it showed something bordering on dismay. 

‘We’ll see about that later on,’ he said lightly. Then he dug in his pockets to find his scanner and looked over his patient quickly, before offering a jovial parting phrase and leaving. A sudden urgency possessed Jim, so touching Spock’s hand apologetically he stood up and hurried after him. 

‘Doctor McGivers?’ The man stopped and turned to wait for him to catch up. ‘May I talk to you?’ 

‘Of course,’ he said, grabbing his PADD slightly harder. Jim concluded that the corridor was sufficiently empty for the conversation. 

‘Spock – my husband – how is he, really? Everyone seems to be saying different things…’ After the first sentence, McGivers sighed and scratched his head. He seemed to collect his thoughts and then said: 

‘Truth be told, Captain –‘ the unexpected use of his title made him wince slightly, as if it were an intrusion into his privacy ‘-we do not know. It is partly because he’s recovering from some rather complicated surgery, partly because his case is basically unprecedented. We don’t know with any certainty how he’ll react to the treatments – we can’t tell yet how successful the operation was.’

‘Does he have a good chance?’ He hesitated, and Jim added: ‘Please be honest.’ 

‘I really can’t say,’ he admitted. ‘I’m hopeful, but we don’t know what kinds of complications might arise. It’s early days for him yet.’ Jim nodded, partly relieved at the honest answer, partly afraid of the implications of it. _They don’t know – they can’t tell – I might still lose him…_ He thought fleetingly of last time he lost him, and all of a sudden he remembered that the doctor’s name had sounded familiar. 

‘Doctor McGivers?’ he said, frowning. ‘Are you a relative of Marla McGivers?’ The young man nodded with a face which seemed half appreciative, half apologetic. 

‘My father’s sister, Captain.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ was all Jim could think of saying. After all, it was his fault this young man’s aunt had been left with a genetically engineered lunatic and ended up dying a horrible death on a planet torn to pieces by its own solar system. 

‘I never met her, although I know, of course, that she was under your command.’ The feeling of being exposed was not as obvious as before, but he was reminded of old grief. The young man started fiddling with his PADD again, and then said: ‘I must say, sir, that it’s an honour to meet you. I’m sorry the circumstances…’ He interrupted himself, and Jim nodded. Still he could not see what the honour was, if this man had, however indirectly, suffered the loss of a family member under his command. Despite that, he had probably paid a higher price for her death than the young doctor had, but he did not dare ponder how Khan unknowingly had punished him for it. As he pushed that memory to the side, he let himself feel sorry for Lieutenant McGivers instead, now when he did not have to see the situation through the veil of command decisions and regulations. The starship captain of those days felt so far away, but he desperately longed for the stability those insignia gave him. 

‘The circumstances… are regrettable,’ he finished the sentence, Spock’s talent for understatement seemingly possessing him. 

‘Yes – they are,’ the doctor answered. Then for a moment his youthful nervousness disappeared and was replaced by professionalism. ‘You should get some rest, sir. From what the nurses have told me, you’ve been here even since they brought him in.’ 

‘Well, yes,’ Jim admitted. 

‘Go home – leave your communicator codes with the nurses,’ McGivers said. ‘Taking care of yourself is the best thing you can do at the moment.’ 

‘All right,’ he said, sounding non-committal. ‘Thank you – for being honest.’ The young man inclined his head slightly as thanks of return and Jim went back to the room. McCoy was leaning against the bed-post at the foot of the bed, his arms folded and eyes on the man in the bed. When Jim entered, he left his place and went up to him. 

‘We should let him sleep,’ he said quietly. Jim glanced at Spock; he lay perfectly still, his face tranquil with rest. The blink of the lamps on the panels shone up the bed. The old doctor seemed to take his gaze as a protest. ‘He’s had a heart attack and then gotten his ribs sawn through today, Jim. He could do with some rest. And so could you, for that matter. You look dead on your feet.’ It struck him how tired he actually was. It was well over twelve hours since they came to the hospital; all that time he had been functioning on only a few hours’ sleep. 

‘Doctor McGivers said something similar,’ he said and then looked at Spock again. ‘Still, I don’t want to go…’ 

‘Of course you don’t,’ Bones said, letting compassion resound in his voice. ‘But you’ll be useless to him if you collapse. In fact, with that bond of yours it might even pose a danger to him.’ That was a good argument if any. 

‘All right. But I’d like to sit with him a few more minutes.’ 

‘Okay,’ he said and slapped his arm. ‘See you in a bit.’ At that he left, whether to escape the hospital room, to answer a call of nature or simply to give the two of them some time on their own, Jim could not tell. Instead of sitting down on the chair at the bedside he lowered himself precariously down onto the bed itself. Spock moved slightly and opened his eyes. A weak smile entered them, which Jim answered. For a long itme they only sat looking at each other. Even when the bond between them was impaired, silent understanding could pass between them without words. 

It was Spock who spoke first, as if feeling the need to communicate with more than glances and not being able to do it telepathically. 

‘You must leave,’ he stated, as if relaying the conversation he had heard them have. Jim nodded. ‘You look quite fatigued, _t’hy’la_.’ 

‘And you look like something the cat dragged in,’ he said, trying to joke, but sound his voice hoarse with tears. Spock reached up and first touched his cheek, then placed his palm against it. His bondmate pressed his hand closer with his own, trying to disregard the IV on it. 

‘Neither do I think a shave would be amiss,’ the Vulcan said and stroked his thumb over his stubble. Jim nodded. 

‘I wished I could stay, but I think Bones and some of the doctors around here will come and carry me off if I do,’ he said. ‘You need to sleep, and then go into your trance.’ 

‘I intend to do so.’ 

‘Would it be easier if I stayed?’ 

‘You need to rest as well, Jim. Besides, your presence might make achieving the trance harder,’ Spock admitted, the smile spreading to his lips. 

‘Alright, I’ll let Bones drag me off,’ Jim sighed, took the hand he had been holding to his cheek and, after a moment of thought, kissed his palm. 

‘Jim, surely…’ Spock murmured. 

‘Sorry – can’t help myself,’ he said, clasping the hand between his own. ‘You’ve just got such beautiful hands.’ 

‘Really, Jim, acting seductive towards a man with a weak heart is hardly proper,’ his bondmate pointed out, but his eyes shone. 

‘Well, I’m sorry about being such a bad influence on your morals,’ Jim answered and joined their first two fingers together instead. Then, without breaking the Vulcan kiss, he leaned forward and pecked him on the lips twice. When he raised his head again, all humour was gone and he was serious once more. ‘You have to take care,’ he whispered. ‘Rest – heal. Then you can come home again.’ Spock nodded, and Jim admitted: ‘I don’t really want go back to the apartment on my own.’ 

‘I think you should have Doctor McCoy keep you company,’ the other man said. ‘I would not wish you to be alone when you are like this, and I believe it would be good for the doctor as well. He might not show it, but he is agitated.’ 

‘Yes – don’t worry, we’ll stick together,’ the human assured him. ‘Is there anything you want me to bring with me tomorrow?’ 

‘Nothing I can think of now,’ Spock admitted, ‘but perhaps some book would be agreeable, even if I at present do not have the strength to read.’ He nodded and suggested: 

‘A toothbrush. A set of pyjamas.’ He smiled at Jim, who touched his face, cherishing the vague warmth it brought to his mind. ‘Really, though, Spock, take care. I’ll be here in the morning.’ He wanted to ask him to be there as well, but could not find any way not to make it sound ominous. ‘Sleep well,’ he whispered. 

‘And you,’ Spock answered and answered yet another kiss, albeit weakly. With a final press of his hand Jim got to his feet and looking over his shoulder of the already relaxing form in the bed, he left. 

***

In the aircar, the two men decided that Jim would sleep at McCoy’s apartment. 

‘It’ll be darn much easier to keep an eye on you,’ he observed grimly. Still, they stopped at Bay Street so that Jim could collect what he would need and what Spock had asked for. The place was of course unchanged since last night, but it disturbed Jim as he got what he needed. The only thing he dared to touch before he left was Spock’s Vulcan lute; it seemed wrong that it lay there silently, but the melodious sound from when he touched a string cut through him viciously. 

Leaving quickly, they continued from the city’s core to where McCoy had lived ever since retiring. 

‘It’s a complete mess – sorry about that,’ he said on their way inside. The other man mumbled something that it was no matter, but the state of the apartment still shocked him. He seldom came here anymore, and he understood why his friend preferred that they met somewhere else. The problem was not any mess, the emptiness of the apartment. Things were half packed into boxes, some of which stood fully visible. A few seemed to be designated for one sort of thing, others were jumbles of objects. He saw the familiar hem of a decorated green dress hanging from one of them and felt a twinge of grief. 

McCoy walked through the half-dead home as if he could not see the near-devastation. 

‘You just make yourself at home,’ he said. ‘I need to call Christine – I was supposed to meet her for dinner, but I’ll cancel it.’ 

‘You sure?’ He knew that McCoy had not had much time to catch up with his old colleague recently. 

‘Yes,’ he just answered, as if he did not want to state that Jim needed the company. 

‘How is she nowadays?’ McCoy shrugged and sat down at the comm console. 

‘She’s fine. Well, you know, she’s not, really, but in comparison… And she _has_ gotten much better the last few months, from what she’s told me,’ he said. ‘Those kinds of things are a bitch to treat, but at least it’s effective.’ Jim nodded, not entirely happy with the idea that someone’s problems would make someone else’s unimportant. Still he was grateful for the company. While McCoy made the call, he took the opportunity to have a shower. When he came back, Bones had just gotten bed-linen out and put it on the sofa. The third occupant of the apartment, a grey cat who did not seem very sociable at the moment, was pawing at it, but scuttled away to hide behind one of the boxes when Jim reappeared. 

‘She told me to send you her love,’ McCoy said to him. ‘She was really sorry to hear.’ 

‘Well, next time you talk to her, say thanks,’ he answered. ‘Listen, Bones, would you mind if I had a nap? I thought I wouldn’t, but…’ 

‘No, go ahead,’ the doctor said, making a permissive gesture. He stayed in silence while Jim spread the linen on the sofa and then wished him a good sleep and left. When he took off the clothes he had just recently put on and lay down, he wondered whether it would be possible, but as soon as he laid his head down, he felt sleep claiming him. It was deep and almost dreamless; all he perceived through it was the bond, waking from its reverie. It seemed to glow gold inside his head, as if Spock too was fast asleep, and in their similar states the connection reacted between them even as it was waking. 

When he woke up, he felt very refreshed. He even found that some of the worry was gone. When he came into the kitchen, McCoy looked up from his solitaire and said: 

‘Ah, hi. Was wondering when you were going to wake up.’ 

‘What’s the time?’ he asked, trying to spot a chronometre. 

‘Past five,’ McCoy answered and stood up, letting the cat, which had been in his lap, down on the floor. ‘Half past, almost. Shall we start thinking about dinner? We had a pretty early lunch…’ 

‘That sounds like a good idea.’ While speaking, Bones had crossed to the fridge and Jim followed. ‘What have you got?’ 

‘Hm… eggs. Beans. Four tomatoes – no, three. That one’s grown fur. Some ham. A bit of cheese. I think I’ve got some potatoes as well, and there should be rice…’ 

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he asked, surprised. 

‘Well, I was never the master chef,’ Bones sighed, going to look for the potatoes. ‘Besides, the Chinese restaurant down the street caters for most my needs. We could make an omelette…’ 

‘Yes, I guess,’ Jim answered listlessly. 

‘By the way,’ McCoy said, retrieving some potatoes from the cupboard, ‘have you spoken to Sarek?’ 

‘No – no, I haven’t.’ He turned around and looked at his friend for a moment. When Jim did not say anything more, the other man said: 

‘You should. He’ll want to know.’ Jim still did not move at first, so he jerked his head in the direction of the comm console, as it to push him towards it. ‘Go on, it’ll need to be done.’ He shrugged and made the call, grateful that McCoy was still in the room, rummaging around for more things to have for dinner. When the connection with Vulcan was made, the doctor stopped and listened to the exchange. Speaking to Sarek was daunting at the best of times, even if McCoy claimed he doted on his son-in-law. This was a labour of unprecedented severity; the only conversation with Spock’s father which had been harder had occurred a month after… Jim did not let himself think of it, suppressing both the memories of the radiation-burnt hand pressed against the glass and of Sarek’s disapproving gaze which had bored deep into him, searching for his son there. When the call ended, Jim found he could not recall what had been said very well, as if he had run on automatic. At this point, McCoy had started to make the omelette. 

‘How do you think he took it?’ Jim asked. The doctor shrugged. 

‘Well enough – he’s pretty good at not letting people see what he thinks. Still…’ He did not continue any further, but his friend could guess that he too had thought there had been guilt in Sarek’s voice, but if it was for heredity of the defect or for his complicated relationship to his son, he could not tell. ‘Are there any more people who should be told?’ 

‘Probably. Peter, I guess. I really don’t want to do it now,’ he admitted. 

‘It can wait,’ Bones said. ‘Set the table, will you?’ 

They ate in silence, though different from that which he tended to share with Spock. There was no telepathic hum and no smiles, only the occasional sigh and the lonesome clatter of cutlery. Jim could guess where the other man’s thoughts were, but he was grateful he did not have to discuss it. His own worries weighed far too heavily for him to willingly take on someone else’s. When they had eaten, McCoy suggested a game of cards, to which he consented, but he did not have his mind on the game. At last McCoy put away the pack again, sighed and leaned back. 

‘You know, I thought about it, all those years ago when Sarek was ill,’ he said at last. ‘It occurred to me that it might be genetic – I think I mentioned it briefly to Spock, but it didn’t really seem that urgent. Vulcans barely get heart-attacks when they’re around a hundred, so why warn one who’s not even forty?’ Jim nodded, not knowing what to answer. He could not remember having reflected upon the topic, although he could imagine that he might have reflected briefly on it at the time. Still, he had been so preoccupied with hunting down assassins and commanding a ship while having his lung punctured that he had not had much time to worry. 

‘I think his grandfather died of a weak heart,’ he recalled. McCoy only gave a ‘hm’ for answer, as if it did not surprise him. Jim lingered on the thought for a moment, hoping dearly that the same outcome did not await his bondmate. Sighing he rubbed his eyes, which must have betrayed his thoughts. 

‘As long as he gets into his trance it’ll be fine,’ Bones said. 

‘Doctor McGivers didn’t seem to know what to think,’ Jim pointed out, ‘and earlier today you were pretty pessimistic yourself.’ 

‘I said it’ll be fine if he gets into his trance,’ the other man noted. ‘I don’t know what to think at the moment, but we’ve passed a crucial point, and when he gets into the trance, he’ll start to heal properly. So stop fretting about it.’ 

‘That’s not exactly easy, Bones,’ he observed. McCoy sighed. 

‘Yes, I know.’ They were silent for a little while, then he asked: ‘Do you know how _he’s_ taking it?’ 

‘He was so tired when we left, so I’m not sure – it’s hard to tell,’ Jim said. Usually he knew exactly what mood Spock was in, but when he had left the hospital, his fatigue had been so overbearing it seemed to blot out all emotions. ‘He was very scared when we came in, and I think not having any telepathy unsettled him a lot.’ 

‘Can’t blame him – it must be pretty shocking,’ McCoy observed and rose from the table. ‘Well, I think I’m going to bed now, and you should do the same.’ Jim only nodded and followed his example. After saying good night, he went back to the living room and the sofa. Despite the bulkiness and narrowness of the bed, lying down was very welcome. As he slowly started sinking into sleep, he reached into his own mind and touched the bond. Distantly, he could sense him, asleep by the feel of it. He let the sensation of Spock at the other end settle itself around him, despite its vagueness. With it in place, there was no possibility of being alone. It was a second breath in his lungs, a second mind stimulating his nerves, a second heart pressed hard against his chest. _That heart…_ He would never be able to hear it beat again without being afraid that is would snag or stop. _Spock?_ For a moment he reached further, and he felt the resting mind brush his. It was all the reassurance he would get, but also all he needed. Clutching that sensation in his mind as a talisman, he fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim was standing in the living-room, watching the woman by the window. Although it was midday, she was looking at the sky as if in search for constellations and far-off planets. 

‘You can’t see it from here now,’ she observed, ‘but in the night-time, you can.’ She did not have to turn around for him to know her identity; he knew that blue dress with desert-flowers embroidered around the hem, the calm voice which so seldom spoke its first language, the veil which covered her hair and cascaded down her back, ending in tassels of gold. From the kitchen, he thought he heard a Fabrinian song, sung by an alien voice. 

Amanda turned around and looked at him. 

‘Sam’s coming tomorrow,’ she observed. ‘Aren’t you excited?’ 

***

It was as if reality had taken a firm grip around Jim and pulled him out of his dream, which had been choking him as surely as the sea would. He found himself panting, lying on a sofa in an only vaguely familiar room. The events of yesterday came flooding back, adding to his discomfort. He had dreamt of the dead; it was always unsettling. 

As he sat up, he stretched out for the bond and felt it there, tingling slightly at the answer, fatigued but reassuring. It was not until then Jim realised how afraid he had been to wake up, and what he would find when he did so, but the sensation of the bond comforted him. Blinking awake he heard Bones rummaging around in the kitchen. 

His eyes travelled to the coffee table, where he had left his possessions the previous night. Reaching out, he picked up what he had been looking for – a silver ring, perched on the books he had brought for Spock. Even if his hands were used to the feel of it, he always felt slight awe when touching the item. Vulcans did not wear wedding rings, and so they had never gotten any for their first wedding, which had been a traditional _kali-farr_. However, they had needed to renew their vows after the failed search for Sha-ka-ri; although Sarek’s solicitors had worked hard to find some old Vulcan law on the status of bondings where one party had died and then been subject to the _fal-tor-pan_ , they had been unsuccessful, so legally Jim was a widower until they married again. It had not been much of a wedding; they had made McCoy, Scotty and Uhura come along as witnesses when they signed the relevant papers. Jim usually wore his ring, while Spock almost never did (even if the original idea had been his), except occasionally when he carried it in a chain around his neck. 

Now he turned the thin band in his grip, studying it. Choosing silver rather than the traditional gold had been a mutual choice; perhaps it had been because silver represented stars closer, or because it simply gave the rings some personality. The outer surface was completely plain, while the inside bore an inscription. There were no names, only an engraved IDIC sign and a series of numbers: 

 

3372.7 – 7421.9 – 8390.1

 

They had settled for stardates, and the dates had not been hard to pick. They were those of their first union, their real wedding day and the day they returned to San Francisco after the Vulcan exile, the same day as Spock’s memories of their relationship fully returned. As he sat there with the ring – itself a hybrid object; a Terran wedding band for a Vulcan marriage, made from metal from one planet, decorated with the philosophical sign from another, and perfected with dates which had no correspondence to any solar system – he remembered all those days. Spock’s relief and joy at finding him alive; his eyes, burning with the fire which consumed him, fixed on his while he waited impatiently for the ritual to end; the moment when they had hit the water, tight in a grip which turned into an embrace, and those lips pressing against his when they resurfaced. Jim slipped the ring on and turned it around on his finger a few times. Later in the day, the joints of his finger might be too swollen to remove the band, but he did not mind. He wanted to hold onto any part of Spock as hard as he possibly could. 

At last, Jim got up, removed the sheets from the sofa and after having had a shower and dressed, he joined McCoy for breakfast. Although the doctor had never been very good at cooking, he was a very talented coffee maker, which was a grace. They had their breakfast in silence, then got what they needed and went down to the air-car. As they drove towards the hospital, Jim realised that the thought of meeting Spock again cheered him. He could not remember the last time they slept apart, and the longing ached in him. McCoy’s lack of pessimistic comments was also encouraging, so as they entered the hospital building and followed the snaking corridors, Jim felt almost happy. 

That feeling might have made it even more unsettling when they reached the ward and spotted Takka and Raulsson, talking with low rushed voices just outside Spock’s door. When the Andorian spotted them, she fell silent and her beetle-black eyes filled with worry. 

‘Has something happened?’ Jim asked, hurrying his step as he tried to master the cold, unreal feeling spreading through him. 

‘He has been unable to go into his trance,’ doctor Raulsson answered and the feeling abated slightly. 

‘Is he all right?’ Takka’s antennae twitched before she answered. 

‘The experience has been very taxing. He is awake now, but weak.’ Jim did not stay to say good-bye or even ask for permission to enter, but went for the door. 

As he stepped inside, the heat in which Vulcans were comfortable enveloped him. After many years, he had grown used to it, but in his agitation it made him perspire. The room was half darkened as the blinds were drawn. A nurse sat in a corner, watching the patient intently.   
Spock lay propped up slightly, one arm down his side, the other resting on his chest. He looked paler and thinner than yesterday, as if something had stolen all his energy. The blinking and beeping and production of graphs from the machines made him shrink in the bed, just as the oxygen tube in his nose enhanced the image of an invalid. It was not until Jim reached the very side of the bed that the eyes fluttered open and he acknowledged him with a weak, veiled smile. It made him grab his hand, almost too forcefully, and sit down on the bed. 

‘Hi,’ he said gently. ‘Oh, Spock, what’s happened to you?’ There came no verbal answer; instead images and memories cropped up in his mind. _Sinking – sinking – being drawn up violently again. Nausea flooding me; giving in to the urge to be sick. Body aching – no way to allievoate it – already too much morphin to concentrate well. So weak, cannot move. If only I could lie on my side, but my side hurts too much… And my mind… Delayed perceptions of the surgery rushing back. Too many hands – still cannot process it all. Nausea again. Shaking, ever shaking – or is it convulsions? Someone approaches, one – two – three hyposprays administered. Skin stinging at the jet injections. Heart beating too fast, too weakly, too violently – no consistency to concentrate on. The pain… Where is he? If only he were here… Trying to sink, being pulled out, upupup…_

‘Stop it,’ Jim whispered. He was so lost in Spock’s perceptions he did not notice the tears on his face. ‘No more.’ He felt the memory cut short, and was left only with his mind. ‘I’m here now,’ he said and kissed his forehead. ‘I’m here, I won’t go anywhere…’ He felt reassurance through the bond, but still the man did not speak. The silence gave rise to a new fear. ‘Can’t you talk, or don’t you have the strength?’ 

‘I find it… discomforting,’ he answered, voice sounding strangled. 

‘Then don’t,’ Jim said and stroked his hair. Suddenly Spock moved and the human felt a secondary wave of nausea flooding him. ‘Nurse.’ She seemed to have noticed it and in a moment she had appeared with a bowl. Jim supported him as he threw up gastric acid and bile, stroking his back in hope to soothe him, even if loosing control over his own body like this was what he considered the ultimate humiliation. When the attack was reduced to dry heaves, Jim took the tissue the nurse was holding and wiped his bondmate’s lips himself. When he laid back again, he looked slightly less grey, but all the more drained. 

‘I brought you your tooth-brush if that’s any comfort,’ he offered, and was answered by a small nod. As he picked it up, the nurse, whose nametag said Mary, offered: 

‘I could do it if you find it hard.’ 

‘Thanks, but I think it’ll be better if I did it,’ he answered, knowing that Spock would find it hard to let anyone but him do such a thing. Still, brushing someone else’s teeth, especially when they were of a completely different design than one’s own, was hard. He knew them well, but with his tongue rather than any other way, but despite that he managed the task without bruising his gums, and when he finished and had put the implement away, Spock smiled weakly at him in thanks. Jim returned the smile and stroked his cheek, giving himself time to absorb the other man’s sensations. Fatigue was the most prominent one. There was pain as well, not the acute kind he had experienced through him last night, but rather a dull ache stretching through his bones, from tiredness and inactivity. The nausea lingered, but the unpleasant taste of bile was gone. There was some superficial worry for what would come next and fear for the news they might give him and for the strain it would put on Jim ( _don’t bother about me, you’re the one we’re worrying about,_ he answered at that), all intermingled with grief and longing for the normal life which had been a reality only two days ago. All of it seemed coated with relief at his presence, and as Jim brushed the thoughts with his mind, Spock’s hand tightened around him. 

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said quietly and pressed his in answer. 

The door opened and McCoy stepped inside with an audible sigh. Jim turned to give him a questioning look and he stopped to report. 

‘They’re sending down a team of neurologists to have a look at him – they have no idea what’s causing this,’ he said, before passing to the other side of the bed. ‘Good morning, Spock. I hope you’re feeling better than you look.’ 

‘Only… marginally,’ Spock answered, still in a strangled voice. 

‘Don’t talk,’ Jim reminded him as McCoy looked over the screens above the bed with a snort and then sat down. He did not now have the courage to ask him what had exhorted such a sound from him, but he gathered that Spock’s inability to go into the trance was not the only cause of worry. When he glanced at the lights and the pointers, the readings seemed weaker than he thought they should be. Still, he reflected, he almost never saw them when they were on the right level, but only when he was wounded or ill. 

‘Have you been able to get any sleep?’ McCoy asked; the Vulcan shook his head slightly. ‘Have you been trying to get into the trance all night, then?’ There was a nod at that. ‘I guess that’s not surprising – but perhaps you should rest.’ Spock only turned his face to Jim, and when he reached out to touch him, he felt the man’s need for his presence. 

‘I’m here,’ he whispered, as if it needed to be put into words. Suddenly aware of the weight in his pocket, he reached into it and took out a chain with a simple band on it. ‘I thought you might want to have this here,’ Jim explained, putting it on the bedside table. He felt gratitude through the bond, and a finger touched his ring, as if to show that he noticed its existence. ‘I brought _Vanity Fair_ and the _Var t’lamok be’t’hy’la_ as well,’ he continued. The title of the ancient Vulcan poem was slightly uncomfortable to say, but after all these years, Jim had mastered the language as well as he ever would. Just as he got out the books and put them on the bedside table, careful not to make the ring fall over the edge, a nurse entered and greeted them. 

‘I’ll move,’ McCoy said and stood so that she could reach the bedside. 

‘Good morning,’ she said to Spock and prepared the hypo she was carrying. Jim watched her, wondering if the nurses had been so young thirty years ago. _She can’t have been out of primary school when I retired,_ he concluded, feeling old again. She must have noticed that he was looking at her, because when she had injected the contents of the hypospray and was putting in another vial into it, she looked up and gave him a nervous smile. As he smiled back, he wondered if her nervousness came from being watched, or because she had just graduated or because she tended not to have extraterrestrial patients. Still, she was efficient at her job, and she had a pleasant bed-side manner. At the second injection, Spock flinched and pressed Jim’s hand harder, at which she stopped and asked: ‘Is it painful? There’s two more I have to give you, I’m afraid.’ 

‘Proceed,’ he said after centering himself. She did, but slowly, watching for a reaction but obviously only seeing Vulcan calm. Even if he was completely still now, Jim sensed his discomfort. When the nurse moved off and left his arm exposed, he realised why; his flesh was blooming with bruises from the hyposprays. He pressed his hand a little harder at the sight, and McCoy winced when he sat down again. 

‘That’s nasty,’ he observed; Spock answered with something very like a snort. 

‘They’re giving you loads of medicines,’ Jim observed; not only were there the four hypos he had just been given, but the tubes by his collar-bone were still there, leading to three different containers of medicine on the wall. ‘What are all of them?’ McCoy left his place and looked at the containers. 

‘It’s pretty standard stuff for these cases – heart medicine of different kinds. That one’s for uptake of oxygen. Painkillers, of course.’ He shrugged and said: ‘They shouldn’t give you injections in that arm for a bit, though. No need to make that worse – it’s pretty remarkable that it’s gotten that bad so soon. I’d up the metrazine a few milligrams, but other than that…’ The pressure of Spock’s hand changed, and he answered through the bond. 

‘Sit down, Bones,’ the other human said. ‘You’re making him nervous, standing there.’ 

‘Sorry,’ he muttered and went to the window, avoiding the bedside as if it were someone else’s place. The room was silent for a few minutes, until Jim thought of the call to Vulcan yesterday. 

‘I spoke to Sarek,’ he said, leaning on the bed to come closer. ‘He sends his love.’ 

‘His regards,’ Spock said, watching him with half-closed eyes. Despite the tiredness, he saw a hint of humour in them. ‘My father does not send his “love”, as you know well.’ 

‘All right, his regards. Anyway, he knows what’s happened.’ 

‘I talked to Christine yesterday – she hopes you feel better soon,’ McCoy added, only half-turning from the window. 

‘Is there anyone you want us to tell who doesn’t know?’ Jim asked. Spock closed his eyes and pondered this, then said slowly: 

‘I believe those in charge of the project at the Academy should be informed that I am unable to perform my duties.’ 

‘Oh hell, I thought I’d do that yesterday,’ he exclaimed and slapped his forehead. The thought had occurred to him briefly on the way home, but seeing the apartment had reminded him so much of Spock that he had forgotten about it. 

‘It is of no matter, Jim – it can be done today,’ the Vulcan assured him. 

‘I thought you shouldn’t talk,’ Jim observed, reaching out to brush his bangs into place. 

‘It feels ungracious to exclude doctor McCoy out of the conversation,’ he explained. 

‘Don’t mind me,’ Bones said, then looked over his shoulder and said:  
‘Really, don’t. You go on and talk in your own way.’ The two others exchanged looks, but they were already taking a firmer hold around each other’s hands. Kirk showed him some of the memories from last night, mostly those relating to McCoy’s half-bad cooking. He did not want to betray his own worry, and certainly did not want to share his dream, afraid to upset him with mention of his mother. Spock, who had already recounted his night and did not seem to want to think of it again, only contributed with his presence, and then asked of McCoy. _Like he usually is,_ Jim answered, not knowing if it were actually true or just what his friend wanted him to see. _His apartment’s a mess._ Then he banished that thought; he was not in the mood to think of what events McCoy was probably contemplating. 

In not long, the door opened and Takka entered. She nodded at Jim and greeted Spock, and then proceeded to look at the readings. He thought he saw her antennae retracting, in an Andorian kind of frown. 

‘You’re bruising badly,’ she noted, shifting his arm carefully. ‘I’ll notify the nurses to give you the injections elsewhere. Tell me, are you still nauseous?’ 

‘The nausea is not as acute as before, although it is by no means gone,’ he answered quietly, as if to save his voice. 

‘Doctor Takka, what about the lectrazine?’ Takka turned and looked at McCoy, who had spoken. ‘It’s not strange if he’s nauseous with a dose as large as that. And considering you’re giving him terakine as well – if you’d have read his file properly, you’d know that he’s always suffered noticeable side-effects from terakine…’ As he spoke, the doctor’s antennae moved down against her head, which reminded Jim of an angry horse, and she cut him off. 

‘Doctor, as you yourself pointed out in your notes, close to all compounds commonly used for humans cause side-effects in the captain. However, it is my assessment that the lectrazine is sufficiently effective against the arrhythmia to weigh up those side-effects, and the terakine is much less problematic than for example triptacedrine or morphenolog. There, I have read the file.’ 

‘Still, there must be some substitute…’ 

‘Captain Spock is not your patient,’ she said sharply. ‘If this is a conversation you want to continue, then we can take it to my office. You should know better than to cause such a distressing scene in front of a sick man.’ For a moment they semed to stare out one another, and Jim thought he could sense the rivalry between them. Then the spell was broken as McCoy’s shoulders slumped, indicating that he gave up the fight. With a sigh, Takka turned back to Spock. ‘Everything looks as well as we could expect it to. I’ll have them bring you some food later on. You should try to eat something, at least.’ With a nod she left again, and an uncertain silence fell. At last Jim broke it. 

‘Bones, was that really necessary?’ 

‘Yes, it was,’ he snapped. ‘They could find alternatives.’ 

‘Doctor Takka is by no means an untalented physician…’ Spock said, but was interrupted. 

‘No, she’s not, but she’s a reckless one.’ He made an exasperated hand-gesture, but his anger seemed to be abating. ‘This might be a petty thing, but what if she does the same thing with something bigger? She should be able to find some other way. God knows I always tried to.’ 

‘Doctor, side-effects are a necessary evil,’ Spock said calmly before Jim had time to find a good answer, ‘and might I remind you that there are very few medicines which will not cause some negative reaction from either of my two halves.’ McCoy snorted, but did not answer. Jim, eager to change the subject, asked: 

‘What did she mean with that he’s as well as they could expect him to be?’ 

‘That he’s worse than yesterday,’ the old doctor answered listlessly as sat down again. That was not the distraction Jim had sought. 

‘Bones…’ The pressure of Spock’s hand interrupted him. 

‘Jim, I do not need my condition kept secret from me,’ Spock said quietly. 

‘I guess you already knew that,’ McCoy observed. The Vulcan nodded solemnly. ‘Well, your blood-pressure’s too high, your pulse is too low and your uptake of oxygen is pretty bad. But it’s like that with these cases – you usually get worse before you get better.’ He shot Jim a look. ‘So don’t worry.’ 

‘I just wish they would be honest,’ he said. 

‘They’re not being dishonest – they just don’t want you to cause a fuss. But all intensive care doctors tend to be vague,’ McCoy added, as if to calm both Jim and himself. ‘Doesn’t mean I agree with everything they’re doing.’ At that moment, the door opened again and what seemed to be a hoard of whitecoats entered. The old doctor caught Jim’s eye and jerked his head. In his turn, he squeezed Spock’s hand and smiled at him, and then moved off to make way for the doctors, even as one of them was already speaking to his patient. Jim saw how Takka waited at the door; she shot McCoy a disapproving glance but still gestured to the nurse to let them stay. Her gaze towards Jim had some portion of regret in it, and no small part of compassion. 

As the doctors produced their cerebral scanners and started the examination, Jim came to stand on the other side of the room together with McCoy, watching them. 

‘What are they looking for?’ he asked, not looking away from the bed, where Spock lay, studying the ceiling. 

‘Anything which might disturb his telepathy,’ Bones said with a shrug. ‘Congenital deformations, bleedings, tumours.’ Jim bit the inside of his cheek at this list. _As if it wasn’t bad enough already…_

‘Do you think they’ll find something?’ The older man just shrugged, then looked at him. 

‘There are other things which might cause it, you know – it doesn’t have to be something wrong with his nervous system.’ They fell silent again and as Jim watched, he wondered how much of what McCoy told him was said to redeem his previous outburst and try to make him stop worrying. Still, he felt something verging on panic at the thought of not knowing precisely how Spock was, and the knowledge that something apart from his heart might be diseased made fear twist his stomach. He watched the doctors scanning, shining lights into his eyes and discussing amongst one another. There seemed to be some kind of argument going on, which was cut short when one of the doctors spoke up and then leaned forward to place his fingers to Spock’s face. It was not until then he noticed that he was quite obviously Vulcan. When he broke the meld and straightened up again, he said something and the discussion started again. 

‘Perhaps we should scan a third time.’ 

‘I think we’d end up with the same result.’ 

‘Could it be a _t’lokan_ schism?’ 

‘Seems unlikely – _t’lokan_ schisms seldom manifest themselves like this.’ 

‘The medication, then.’ 

‘None of it is known to give these symptoms…’ 

‘But we do not know how he would react to them – this is an unprecedented case.’ 

‘It can’t be any endocrine imbalance – none showed up in the last blood-samples, and they were taken only half an hour ago. The telepathy-suppressing drugs are out of his system as well.’ 

‘Could there be a badly formed bond?’ 

‘There were no indications of any bonds except a well-established wedding bond.’ 

‘But it is with a non-telepath…’ 

‘That should not be relevant.’ 

Jim could not stand and only listen to these detached sentences any more, but stepped forth and cleared his throat. The doctors fell silent and looked at him; the Vulcan saluted him, as if recognising him as indirectly sharing in Vulcan culture. Jim nodded in reply and asked: 

‘How is my bondmate?’ A woman with bobbed hair answered: 

‘The scans gave nothing, and the margin for mistakes is minimal. We have also ruled out some endocrine disorders.’ 

‘I was unable to detect anything in his mind which should inhibit the trance,’ the Vulcan reported after her. 

‘There has to be _something_.’ 

‘But he hasn’t been in the trance since over five years ago,’ one of the other doctors pointed out. Jim nodded; Spock seemed to have lapsed into light sleep, but if he were awake, he would probably have given them the precise time which had elapsed. All he could say was that it was five and a half years and a bit ago. It had been nothing worse than a rather nasty bout of seasonal flu; the trance was simply an efficient way for him to recover quickly. Now, however, the trance was desperately needed, and Jim did not want to contemplate the consequences if he did not achieve it. 

‘Old age, then,’ the woman with the bobbed hair said suddenly.

‘The trance is seldom impaired until around the age of 150,’ the Vulcan doctor objected. 

‘He’s half-human, and it _is_ the usually first telepathic faculty to be influenced by age. Beside, heart disease only manifests occasionally in Vulcans before 120,’ another of the specialists pointed out. ‘We obviously can’t use Vulcan norms in this case.’ 

‘True.’ 

‘Does that mean that he’ll not be able to achieve the trance at all?’ Jim asked, trying to keep fear out of his voice.

‘Unlikely,’ the Vulcan answered. ‘It will impair his ability to go into the trance – to what extent is unknown -, but not make it impossible.’ 

‘And what if he isn’t able to?’ he continued. He wished he could hold onto Spock’s hand, but the doctors were still forming a veritable wall around him. It felt strange to speak of him as if he were not present, even if he was asleep. 

‘Sir, recovery is possible even without the trance,’ one of them who had not spoken before said. Jim inwardly winced at the round-about way he said it in. _Why not just say, “he might not die”?_ ‘It will be an out-drawn ordeal, but with good care, his chances are not made worse.’ _And neither are they made any better._

‘I would recommend calling in a Vulcan specialist,’ the bobbed woman said. 

‘Aren’t you one?’ Jim asked the Vulcan, but from the raised eyebrow, which reminded him more of Sarek than of Spock, made him understand his assumption was wrong. 

‘I studied xenomedicine on Vulcan, which makes me specified in all things which are _not_ Vulcan, even if it is by no means unknown to me, sir. I am present simply as my mind-melding abilities might be of help.’ 

‘Oh – I see,’ he answered lamely. ‘Is there a specialist in the hospital?’ 

‘No,’ someone from the faceless crowd of whitecoats answered. ‘I say ask the professor of Vulcan medicine at the Academy – he is no doubt the best expert in San Francisco.’ The others concurred, and at that the crowd started thinning as they started to leave, until only the bobbed woman was left, deep in conversation with Takka. 

Jim moved to the side of the bed, feeling himself sinking into confusion. He knew that there was little they could do about symptoms of old age, and their promises that not achieving the trance did not make the odds worse seemed hard to believe. Sitting down, he placed two fingers against Spock’s hand, afraid to make him stir. Some consequences of aging were manageable, even intriguing, like Spock’s darkening eyes and whitening hair. Others were a nuisance, but still not dangerous, like his growing sensitivity to cold. Then there were others, not only the problems with the healing trance but indeed this entire situation, which were so unsettling he barely wanted to think of them. Still, here he was confronted with it, even in the touch of his loved one’s hand, which lay limp under his fingers. Mortality was glaring at him – that one inevitable fate which he always had steered clear of, but even so here it was, coiling around their bond and whispering truths he wished not to hear. 

Spock’s breath caught and turned into a violent cough. That roused him from his uncertain sleep and made him shake with the effort. Jim put a steadying hand on his shoulder, and he pressed into the touch. Through the bond he felt his need for contact. That made him want to take him in his arms, but he did not dare to lift him from the bed when he looked this fragile. Instead, he took hold of both his hands and pressed them. Spock kept his eyes closed, but was obviously conscious. His bondmate received no telepathic messages, but only sensed his conflicting emotions; fear, relief, discomfort, shame, gratefulness, pain, love. All he could do was press his hands harder and show that he was there; both words and thoughts seemed void of meaning in comparison. When McCoy suggested coffee, he declined, only letting go of Spock’s hands occasionally to take a new, better grip. At noon, a nurse came with a bowl of soup. Not heeding her protests, Jim took it from her and when Spock stirred again he fed him most of it. He really did look old like this, sallow and bedridden and weak-lipped. When he indicated that he had no appetite left, he put it aside and took his hands again. McCoy had come to sit at the other side of the bed, clasping his own hands hard, as if trying to restrain them from reaching out. 

‘Jim,’ Spock murmured and turned his head in his direction. Jim held his hand tighter, trying and failing to hear what he said before slipping into sleep again. He and McCoy exchanged looks, both silent and sorrowful. 

‘It’s good that he rests,’ McCoy said, as if to find something to say, but did not raise his voice to more than a whisper. ‘Let’s not wake him up.’ 

‘I’m staying here,’ Jim simply said, pressing the hand in his grasp.


	6. Chapter 6

When Jim and McCoy stepped through the door of the apartment, the first thing to greet them was a pleased purr and a soft heat which pressed itself against their legs. 

‘Hello, kitty,’ McCoy said, reaching down to pick the cat up in his arms. 

‘Does she still not have a name?’ Jim asked while taking off his shoes. 

‘I really can’t think of one,’ the other man admitted as he walked further into the apartment. His friend followed him, already feeling the hopelessness of this half-home lapping at him. ‘Besides, there’s nothing wrong with “kitty”. It’s a name of sorts.’ 

‘It’s not “kitty” that’s strange – it’s that you’ve had her for over a year and you haven’t named her yet,’ he observed, but then decided not to press matters further. Although he knew Bones would not try to discuss it, he did not want to think of the reason why he had gotten that cat. “A bit of company” was what he said he had needed. For a moment he wondered whether he would get a pet if he would find himself alone. It felt unlikely; that void would not be one which would be possible to be filled. He doubted the cat really served her purpose. 

‘Beans all right for dinner?’ McCoy asked from the kitchen as Jim wandered into the living-room and sat down on the sofa, idly turning the ring on his finger.

‘Fine,’ he said vaguely and then got up again to look around the room. For a moment he wondered if he should go home, but he guessed that would be worse. They had gone there briefly to pick up Spock’s diary and call the leaders of the project at the Academy. When Jim had left the apartment, he had brought the chess-board with him. Now he watched it mournfully where it lay collapsed on the coffee table now. It had probably been silly to bring it, but he wanted to pretend things were like normal. That afternoon they had tried to play without a board, which usually worked well, as they were both good at remembering the positions of the pieces. Sometimes they played that way simply because of its practical advantages, for example during travels, but more often, it was for the added fun in remembering the positions. They used to lie curled up on each other’s embrace in front of the fire, occasionally speaking the moves, occasionally only thinking them. Together, they had perfected the art of playing chess without moving or speaking. However, today it had proven impossible; Jim had to remind Spock of the previous moves, and it was obvious that he was too weak to concentrate on it. Perhaps bringing the board would make it better, but he was not certain. That entire day Spock had seemed so pitiable; his grip had been weak, his eyes only half-open and his lips constantly parched. 

He had slept most of the afternoon, but woken once with a start, and Jim had felt his panic at not knowing where he was or why his body had turned into an aching mass of flesh, pierced by tubes and needles. Jim had calmed him the best he could; the chess-game had been yet another attempt at that, in the hope that it would make him forget his discomfort and pain. In reality, he feared that that it only had made him more miserable. Towards the end of the afternoon, he had floated in and out of sleep, not seeming comfortable either way, until one of the doctors – Jim could not even remember who it had been – had prescribed him a sedative. Not having to see him toss and turn was a relief, but feeling how his mind was hidden by drug-induced sleep was unpleasant. Like the previous day, he had not wanted to leave, and not being able to say good-bye unsettled him. Still, the day had been daunting, so he had just kissed his forehead, pressed his hand once more and left the room mutely, willing away the thoughts that were trying to force their way into his mind. 

McCoy was speaking in the kitchen, but whether to him or to the cat he did not know. The old doctor seemed to try to seem jovial and hopeful, but he noticed the darkness in his gaze. Still, Jim was finding being alone with his thoughts oppressive, so he went into the kitchen and helped as much as he was allowed to. 

‘I’ll fix dinner tomorrow,’ he said as McCoy placed the beans on the table. 

‘What’s wrong with the beans? You haven’t even tasted them,’ Bones said incredulously. 

‘They’re probably fine, but it is almost the only thing you can cook,’ Jim pointed out as he was served. 

‘I do make a pretty good omelette,’ the doctor objected. 

‘Which we had yesterday. I’ll think of something to make,’ he concluded and tasted the food. It was, as usual with McCoy’s beans, delicious, but the Tennessee whiskey was what should get the real praise from saving the dish from blandness. The fact was that Jim was grateful he had been relieved from cooking for a few days, even if he enjoyed it. It seemed like his inspiration for that kind of thing was gone; cooking was usually a mutual task, and he was certain that anything he came up with would be much more boring if it had not been cooked for the exact time and had a variety of strange Vulcan spices thrown onto it. Of course, Spock would never help him to prepare meat, which he probably had not done properly more than a dozen times the past twenty years. His bondmate’s disapproval and his usual sharing in his vegetarian diet, even if it did not always appeal to him, had made meat into something of a guilty pleasure. Now he felt strangely adverse to even the thought. 

They ate in silence, and Jim continued pondering the events of the last two days all over again. He remembered how weak Spock had seemed when they had left, and how distant he felt in his mind. While pondering the day, what McCoy had said last night came back to him, that as long as he got into the trance, it would be fine. 

‘Damn,’ he exclaimed, put the cutlery down and leaned his head in his hand. He could almost hear McCoy’s lips thinning worriedly. Jim felt an overwhelming need to cry, but fought it down. Still, the helplessness of the situation stayed. Bones must have reached over the table, as he felt him pressing his arm. 

‘Try not to think about it,’ he said quietly. 

‘How can I?’ Jim asked, not looking up. He dared not say that every moment, he felt Spock in the back of his mind, fighting to breathe and trying in vain to keep control. Neither could he describe to him the desperation, which he did not know was his or Spock’s. 

‘I know it seems hard, but there’s nothing you can do,’ the old doctor said. 

‘I could be with him.’ 

‘He needs to rest,’ he pointed out, ‘and so do you.’ He let go of his arm and, drawing back, sighed. When he spoke again, it seemed simply to be to fill the void of conversation. ‘I’ll do the dishes.’ Jim lowered his hands and nodded, and soon after that he left the kitchen. The cat followed him into the living room and stroked itself against his legs. As cats went, this was a quite friendly one, but she tended to like Spock better than him. Then again, Spock had always been good with cats, even before he had come to terms with his human side. Jim thought of this listlessly as he patted the feline and scratched her behind her ears, which made her burrow her head into his hand. When he looked up, the green hem which he had seen yesterday caught his eye. _Old wounds, eh,_ he thought, and standing up, he instinctively reached for it. The cloth was not of Terran make, and felt strange to his hands. When he lifted it up, he saw what it had been hiding. Highest up in the box lay a framed photograph of McCoy, smiling at the camera, and a woman at his side, his arm around her waist and his cheek pressed against hers. Jim smiled at it, but felt nothing but regret and bitterness. As he looked at the dress he was holding, he realised that it was what she had been wearing in the photograph they had had in the living-room for a long time, before removing when it became obvious how much it disturbed McCoy. By now, it was quite old, taken shortly after their retirement. He thought it had been Gillian who had taken it; Spock would have known, along with the exact date and where they had been. Jim remembered as much as that it had been a restaurant by the bay, and it had been warm enough to sit outside. In the photograph, they sat around a table, Jim and McCoy on the sides, Spock and Natira between them. Bones had his arm around her, while the captains’ hands had been touching slightly. They had been smiling, even Spock, in his own way. He remembered it as a good day. It must have been among the first times he met Natira after she came to Earth. 

No one had been expecting her to; indeed, most people, Jim included, had thought that McCoy’s marriage to the priestess, besides not being legitimate under Federation law, was doomed to fail. For the first few years after their first meeting, which had occurred a few days before their marriage, they had barely seen each other. They had spent three years together when McCoy had researched Fabrinian medicine after the first five-year mission, but after Kirk had gotten back the _Enterprise_ , they once again saw very little of one another. Still, when McCoy had retired years later, Natira had handed over her duties to a younger woman and joined him on Earth. McCoy had seemed happy enough to settle on the new Fabrini homeworld, but despite the fact that space-travel had its advantages, there was something comforting about returning to one’s native soil, so he had not complained. Sometimes Jim thought it entertaining that both he and Bones had ended up marrying aliens; still, he found Natira much stranger than Spock had ever seemed. Indeed, she was less human-like than most humanoid species were – her eyes were almost twice as wide as a Terran’s, her joints could bend other ways and on each hand, she had six fingers. It made her attractive as well as almost disturbing. Sometimes, she had come with McCoy when the three shipmates met up, but she would mostly sit and listen to them talking. Still, despite her silence, Jim enjoyed her company. She had the curiosity of a child and Earth never seemed to stop fascinating her. He particularly remembered once when she had spotted a bird and had sprung to her feet with excitement, because neither Yonada nor the new Fabrini homeworld had any winged animal life. When things like that happened, Bones would smile indulgingly and she would make him tell her all there was to know on whatever particular subject which had caught her attention. His manner towards her always seemed to have an amused tinge to it, but most often it was surprisingly loving when coming from a man like McCoy. It seemed like her resolve to be with him had cemented the infatuation they had experienced on Yonada. 

What had happened had seemed like a true waste. In the end it had come down to the problem of living on a planet one was not native to. The trouble had not even started with her, but with Spock and his tendency to contract seasonal flu every year. Jim had gotten used to nursing him through it, and although the process was not pleasant, neither was it dangerous. McCoy had assumed that it would be contagious for as long as a human, but in some way, his hybrid body kept the virus far longer than they had expected. From what they had been able to figure out, Natira must have contracted it two weeks after Spock’s recovery, when all four of them had met for dinner. She had fallen ill the next day, but she had not seemed very unwell the first three days. Her husband had assumed that she would be getting better soon, but instead her condition started deteriorating slowly over the next few weeks. Then one day, she had gone from bad to worse and McCoy (or so Jim had been told) had come rushing into Starfleet Medical with Natira unconscious in his arms. He must have gone there from habit, and it soon became apparent that he had been the only one with enough knowledge on Fabrinian physiology to treat her, and still his understanding of it was far from complete. At that point, most of her internal organs had malfunctioned and had started to disintegrate, and even as he healed up one bleeding, another would erupt, while the fever raged within her. Jim had thought at the time that perhaps it would have been better if she had not died under his hands, because guilt had, along with grief, been etched into his face. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ he had told them at the funeral and then turned away. It was the last time he talked about it, and in the two years that had passed, he had not mentioned her name once to Jim. He knew, of course, that this did not mean that he did not think of her; on the contrary he noticed where his friend’s thoughts turned, especially now. 

He let the old dress fall over the photograph again, and looked around at the half-empty shelves and the boxes. It was as if McCoy could not decide whether to evict her out of his life or keep her possessions, whether he should give her up for dead and forgotten or cling to her memory. His indecision frightened Jim; after the incident in the Mutara sector all those years ago, he had made up his mind easily. He had ordered Spock’s quarters sealed after having gone there once. Even during that short visit, he had almost found encountering the collection of poetry lying on a table, the PADDs left on the desk for signing and his scent lingering in the pillow too much to bear. The only disruption of the room he made himself guilty of was to remove the meditation robe from its hanger, where Spock had left it when going on duty the last time. He had thought he could feel his hands on it still, and just like the bed, it had still carried his scent. He had not wanted to let go of it, but had still handed it over to have Spock – the body – dressed in it. The thought of burying him in the uniform he had died in had felt wrong; the anonomymity of that would have been too much. When they at last had come back to Earth, he had not moved or hid anything in the apartment. He had even left the jar of tea-leaves where it had always been, even if he never used it himself. 

For an instant Jim wondered how he would have been two years afterwards, if Spock had stayed dead – or if Spock were to die now. Probably he would cling as desperately to what was left as Bones, but he hoped he would not try to obscure it as he did. Still he could not tell – indeed, he could not imagine being without Spock for such a long time. He could not see how he would be able to. 

The cat stroked itself against his hand again, and happy for the distraction he shuffled the animal into his arms and sat down with her in his lap. Soon enough, McCoy came into the living room, and even if it was a ridiculous thought, he was grateful that the cat had warned him to move away from the box. They spent an hour trying to find something to speak of and failing, until Jim announced that he was going to bed. They said good-night, Bones left and Jim lay down, trying to pry the ring off his finger but finding his joints too swollen. He simply slid the ring back onto his finger and let his mind wander. It took well over an hour until wakefulness escaped him, and even after that he slept fitfully. Several times he woke in cold sweat, certain for a short, horrible moment that something had happened. Sometimes he was even unable to remember why he was here and not at home in bed beside Spock, before he woke up enough to recollect the recent events. Every time he woke up, he would get up and look at the sky. It was too cloudy to see the stars, but he knew that had it not been for that, he would have been able to see the speck of light that was Vulcan. It must have been what Spock had been looking for when he had left his bed that night. Jim seldom liked to think of it, but he knew that even if Spock was content with their life on Earth, sometimes it was evident that he missed Vulcan. They had never spoken of it, and Jim could not help but think of his homeworld as a rival. But had they lived on Vulcan, perhaps this would not have happened. There were things Vulcan could do for him which Jim could never do. He reached out for the bond, and felt the veiled presence on the other side of it. With a sigh he turned form the thought and went back to bed. 

***

When they entered the hospital room the next morning, they found Spock half-sitting, propped up against some pillows. His eyes had been closed when they stepped inside, but they opened when they came closer, and Jim saw the ghost of a smile pass across his face. 

‘Jim,’ he said and reached out a hand. The human smiled back at him, took it and restied kissing it then and there in front of Bones. 

‘You look a little better,’ Jim noted while he brushed his fringe into place. His lower lip bore a green row of half-moons where he must have bit down and his hair seemed whiter than before (even if that was ridiculous), but the pallor had receded a little and his eyes looked more awake. 

‘I must admit I am going rather sore,’ he answered. 

‘That’s not strange – you haven’t been out of bed for over two days,’ McCoy snorted. ‘At least they’re shifting you.’ When he mentioned it, Jim noticed that Spock was lying slightly on his side, and his arm was propped up with a small cushion so that it would not bruise against the mattress. When he noticed that, he also realised that they had removed the oxygen tube, which made him look less weak. 

‘Your faith in the physicians on my case is touching, Doctor McCoy,’ Spock said, not quite with his customary strength of voice, but the jibe was refreshing. 

‘I never trust doctors,’ he answered, looking at the readings. 

‘That is only because practitioners of your profession can never agree on anything,’ the Vulcan retorted, but his eyes never left Jim, who smiled at the sudden normality of things. It was broken abruptly when Spock started coughing. He caught hold of his shoulder to steady him, but did not let go when it passed. 

‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly, knowing that of course he was not. Spock made a dismissive gesture, so he looked at McCoy, as if for an explanation. He simply pressed his lips together, looking worried.

‘Please do not be agitated, _t’hy’la_ ,’ Spock said, his voice more strangled than before. ‘My breathing is simply compromised by my heart condition – it is only to be expected.’ Jim was about to leave it at that, then he reflected over it and, remembering how laboured his breathing had been the night he had fallen ill, said: 

‘But that should be getting better, right?’ He did not answer. McCoy moved to the foot of the bed and leaned against it. 

‘They’ve talked to you, haven’t they?’ he asked, and was answered with a nod. 

‘What do you mean?’ Jim asked, looking from one to the other, fighting worry at what they were saying and annoyance at being left out. 

‘The operation was not entirely successful,’ Spock said slowly. ‘The occlusion caused some damage to my heart. It is nothing which cannot be medicated, but my convalescence will prove considerably longer than expected.’ 

‘What went wrong?’ he wondered. If there was someone to blame – someone who was guilty of malpractice… 

‘Probably just bad luck,’ McCoy said with a sigh. ‘There’s so many variables, Jim. Time could be a reason, but by no means the only one. Besides, it was a complicated condition and a complicated treatment, and added to that hybrid physiology…’ He shrugged helplessly, as if he could not find it in himself to blame the doctors for once. Jim bit his lip, but found nothing to say. He tried to process this new turn of events but failed to find any way other than vague panic to answer it. 

The heavy atmosphere seemed to disturb Bones as well, because instead of continuing on the topic, he recounted Jim’s complaints about his cooking. Spock offered a half-hearted insult of his Tennessee beans, then reclined and fell silent. He did not fall asleep, but seemed to look at reflections of the sun-light in the ceiling. The sounds of the machines filled the room. They were only interrupted by Spock’s ragged breathing or McCoy occasionally saying something to Jim. The longer they sat by him, the clearer it seemed to Jim that Spock was not better than yesterday, merely better rested and able to put on a good show. True weariness was visible in his eyes, even if they looked more alert than before. He must know that Jim would notice, and that fooling McCoy would be impossible. Perhaps he simply did it because it was much easier if they could all pretend he was better. 

About an hour after their arrival, a nurse came and asked them to leave the room so that they could care for their patient. Before Jim had had time to object, McCoy had hauled him out of the room, saying: 

‘Give the man some privacy.’ He refrained from pointing out that that after almost thirty years of marriage, ideas of privacy tended to break down, even when you were married to a Vulcan. Still he complied, and they ended up drinking coffee in the corridor without speaking. Jim was nursing the strange feeling that he should be in a good mood, while the news that Spock was not as well as they had first thought weighed heavily on him. 

When they were let into the room again, he suggested playing a game of chess – it would serve to distract both him and Spock. When he produced the chess board from his bag, Spock’s eyes lit up. 

‘A most pleasant idea,’ he called it as his bondmate clicked the levels into place and arranged the pieces. At first Spock made his own moves, but after only a few moves the tremour of his hand proved too much and he accidentally made most of the pieces on the queen’s level fall. The sinking look in his face was almost painful to watch. 

‘Don’t worry – just tell me how to move them,’ Jim said as he picked them up and put them back in their original positions. The only grace was that McCoy had rapidly gotten bored with their game and left the room for a walk, and he felt that Spock was grateful that the old doctor had not witnessed his lapse. In his mind, Jim assured him that Bones would not tease him for it, but he knew that it was not about whether he would or not. If Spock did such a thing in front of Jim, it was equal to having done it in private; had McCoy seen it, his disgrace would have been public. 

Despite Jim’s earlier ominous mood, Spock’s playing showed that he was better than yesterday. Even if he was not as disciplined as usual, he achieved check twice before finally losing his king. 

‘The game is yours, _t’hy’la_ ,’ he said quietly. Jim smiled at him and offered two fingers; Spock extended his in response. The tips met and the human’s fingers slid down his, over the back of his hand and then up again. When he grabbed his hand, he kept his two first fingers together in a Vulcan kiss. 

‘How are you feeling?’ 

‘Adequate,’ he answered quietly. ‘Your presence is soothing – I am grateful.’ Jim chuckled. 

‘You know I can’t keep away,’ he said. The corners of Spock’s mouth twitched. ‘Does it hurt? The incision, I mean.’ 

‘Not particularly. In fact, they removed the dressings earlier today.’ The Vulcan’s hand moved in his grip and then closed over his fingers. ‘You have not seen it, is that correct?’ Jim shook his head. 

‘Would you like me to?’ Spock freed his hand and, his hands fumbling more than usual, folded down the blankets and raised his shirt to expose his side. Jim cocked his head at the sight and moved to see it better, placing a hand on Spock’s arm as if to steady him. 

The wound had been mechanically closed, but was not completely healed. It resembled a slightly crooked X which shone green against his pale skin as it spread over his side and up onto the lower part of his chest. Jim noticed that they had shaved off a portion of the hair on his chest and stomach; he thought it a pity, even if it was necessary. It was hard to imagine anyone reaching through that wound; he could not picture Spock’s ribs, held together with savage steel nails, or his operated heart. That, at least, was a grace, as he would rather not think about it.   
When he looked up at Spock, he noticed that he had averted his eyes. Jim pressed his arm reassuringly. 

‘It’s all right,’ he said silently. 

‘There will be some scarring, I have been told,’ Spock said stoically. ‘It will look… unappealing.’ 

‘I won’t think that,’ Jim told him. ‘Nothing about you could be ugly, Spock.’ At that he snorted and covered the wound again; his bondmate drew up the blanket for him. When he touched his hand, he could feel his frustration. ‘Tell me what you feel,’ he whispered, despite that. 

‘I do not wish to stay here,’ Spock said finally. ‘I wish to go home.’

‘You will – soon,’ he said, even if he was not certain of it. ‘They’ll discharge you soon, and I’ll take care of you and keep you company all the time And when you get better, we’ll take walks along the bay and play chess after dinner and make love in the mornings.’ Now, there was a real smile on his face, indulgent and tender, as his always were. Still, Jim felt that Spock did not quite believe what he had said. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he intoned and stroked his hair. He ached to embrace him, but did not dare to. Why did thinking of that future make him so uneasy? Was he that afraid it would not happen – or was he rather afraid to face what was most plausible? 

He had not lied that the scar would not make Spock ugly. However, it would make him look old. The past few days, the signs of aging had been become much more obvious; he had lost considerable weight, the green veins in his hands had become swollen and the weariness showed in his eyes. Even today, when Jim’s first impression of him had been one of a man who was recovering, his face remained pale and drawn, and bruises covered both his arms. When the nurses came to administer hypos, they had once again been given new orders and now gave them in his legs, as not to harm the tender skin anymore. Jim would look away, trying to ignore the tubes and the way his thighs were already reacting against the injections. It seemed like his skin was slowly being claimed by those bruises. Later that day, Jim noticed congealed blood on his arm, probably from where one of the many blood-samples had been drawn. Here it was again – mortality sneering at him. Much as he tried to turn away from it, it followed him, like shadows in a mirror. 

He sat by his side in silence and let their minds converge. His own worry was badly hidden, and came to meet Spock’s. When McCoy came back, he only sat for a little while before suggesting lunch. 

‘No, let’s wait,’ he said, and as he had anticipated, soon a nurse came with lunch for Spock. Just like yesterday, it was soup; it seemed all he was strong enough to eat. She surrendered the bowl to Jim, who set about feeding Spock it. McCoy stayed silent, as if he felt he was intruding on something intimate. Perhaps he was; Jim found himself wishing for a moment that they were alone, and he felt how his bondmate felt ashamed at being seen by anyone else than Jim to be too weak to use a spoon, even if it was someone who had been his doctor for almost thirty years. After half the bowl, Spock raised a trembling hand and pushed it away. 

‘That is sufficient,’ he said. 

‘You need to eat,’ McCoy pointed out, breaking his silence. 

‘I _have_ eaten, doctor, but I feel unable to have more at present. To be perfectly honest, it is rather nauseating. I would appreciate if you would not try to instill further distress in me. I am sufficiently fatigued as it is.’ The old doctor snorted and stood up. 

‘Well, Jim and I should get some lunch,’ he said and went towards the door. Then he turned. ‘You coming?’ Jim rose and offered his two fingers to Spock, who answered the kiss. Then he followed his friend, remaining silent and worried.


	7. Chapter 7

When McCoy and Jim returned from lunch, Spock was floating in and out of sleep. Occasionally he would murmur something in Vulcan, but mostly the words he spoke were indiscernible. When Jim sat down and took his hand, the touch did not wake him, but the connection between them opened. It seemed suddenly that the bond was all which was keeping him calm; some of Spock’s control must be possessing him. 

The bond was still an intriguing thing, even if he had had it for the greater part of his life now. After many attempts he had understood that it was a thing near impossible to explain in plain words, but something rather to be perceived. It was like always lying heart to heart - it was an unending embrace, pulling tight even when they were separated. It made them one, sometimes to the extent that it was hard to distinguish between one another’s emotions and sensations. At first it had been strange to have that second set of senses, but Jim had come to cherish that ability. Through it, he could see colours his own eyes could not perceive and to hear subtle changes in voices and music which he had never discerned before. He would feel the waves of pleasure and need rushing through Spock’s body as they made love, and he would feel his anguish and pain whenever he was worried or ill. That was what he sensed now, as he sat by his bedside and held his limp hand, as well as when he would leave the hospital that evening and let himself be mothered by Bones. Even if he did not concentrate on it fully, Spock would always be in the back of his mind, and he would sense him just as he would sense some part of himself.   
The making of the bond had been the most glorious thing – shooting stars behind his eyes and the feel of the pull between their minds, finding himself _inside_ that mind, and that mind inside his. A sense of completeness which he had never sensed before enveloped him as he quenched the fires of _pon farr_ , feeling their minds becoming one. _Parted from me and never parted – touching and touched…_

The breaking of that bond had been as painful as the forging had been wonderful. He had of course felt the threat of it many times; theirs had been a dangerous line of work, as he often reminded himself, and situations which could end in death were not uncommon. Jim had been able to feel such things even when they had only had an engagement bond and were separated by star-systems. Once he had had to excuse himself from a meeting with Starfleet Command due to the pounding in his head and the cold sweat he was breaking. When he had made it out into the corridor, he had known that Spock was in danger. There had of course been nothing he could do – at that point, he had not seen him for over a year and was trying to forget all about him, as he thought he would never see him again. Still at that point, he had been forced to feel everything which happened to him. After a while it became clear that he had been walking in the desert, probably as a test of endurance, but had now collapsed and lay thirsting and exhausted as the scavengers of the desert circled around him. Jim’s knees had buckled and someone had rushed to his aid. As he had not known how to shield or process it, the dizziness and weakness had stayed as long as the bond had demanded his attention, until the other diciples of the _kohlinar_ had came to save Spock from the death awaiting him. 

When the bond had broken for real, the feeling had been quite different from the foreshadowing. He had felt the raging pain but also the acceptance of death, and then the bond had snapped, and he was cut in two. At the moment it happened, when Spock’s head fell limp against the glass, all he had experienced was complete silence, bordering on nothingness. Only later did his absence turn into a roar. The next month before he found the solution to this no-win scenario, Jim had battled with himself every moment. On the one hand, he had duties – to his ship, to his crew and to Spock, so that his sacrifice would not be in vain. On the other, every breath was pain, and not even sleep stopped the acute longing for him. He had kept his distress hidden, and had only threatened to break once, just before the funeral. He did not dare tell anyone properly how the broken bond pulled at him, but when McCoy had found him fallen on his knees, far too shocked even to weep, he had confessed that he _could not stand it, there’s no winning_. Bones had tried to calm him and had finally given him a tranquilizer, which seemed to do little to ease his inner turmoil. Still, he had not dared to show in front of the cadets and the officers that the admiral himself was slipping. Despite the wide-spread ignorance, he knew it was true; for the first time, life had seemed like the lesser alternative, all because it did not have Spock. It would have been easy – he would not even have needed the implements of suicide in order to die, all he had to do was let his mind slip to follow Spock’s down into the void – not a darkness, only nothingness, beyond the starlight which had always surrounded them. Still he had fought it, long enough to gain knowledge that there was a way to save him. 

He had gone without the bond for another three months, waiting for Spock to recover after the _fal-tor-pan_. It had been easier to hold on when he knew that he was alive, even if the worry that he would never regain his memories was always present. Even if Spock had remembered at their return to San Francisco, they had not bonded again until a few weeks later, after the events on Sha-ka-ri. Jim had not imagined that it would be possible, but the new bond seemed even stronger than the first, perhaps because it incorporated what was left of the old connection in his mind. The pain of the last few months had been relieved and he felt as if he belonged like he had never done before. He feared what would happen if that feeling would disappear. It felt as if he could endure anything but the breaking of the bond between them. As if to expel the idea, he let his grip around Spock’s hand grow harder. How he loved those hands in their leanness and elegance. Now, they were bony and riddled with swollen veins – they had become an old man’s hands. It surprised that he had not noticed it until now; he could not tell whether they had aged successively or suddenly when he fell ill. Still, when his hand lay between Jim’s fleshy hands with arthritic joints and darkened finger-nails, they seemed like the same which had grasped him before their first kiss and had sought his face to join his mind. Despite death and rebirth and aging, he was still the same, which brought him a little comfort. Perhaps that meant that if he lost him, he would still be able to get him back. 

When he awoke, Jim both felt and saw how he seemed to rise from inside himself and moved his head uneasily, mumbling something indiscernible. His breathing was laboured, and it took longer than before for him to open his eyes. 

‘Did you have a good sleep?’ Jim asked and moved closer. 

‘I had a most… disturbing dream,’ his bondmate said hoarsely. His thirst was tangible in his bondmate’s mind; he harkened the request, holding the glass only slightly, as he insisted to grab it himself. 

‘Tell me about it,’ he said when he took the glass back. 

‘I do not remember it now.’ Spock seldom admitted to dreaming, even if Jim knew full well he did, but if it he went to the trouble of mentioning it, it was probably something quite distressing, which made him hope that he had indeed forgotten it. They sat in silence for a long time, and all that Jim seemed to be able to concentrate on was Spock’s breathing, which seemed increasingly laboured. He was just about to voice this concern when McCoy walked over to the side of the bed where he was sitting and looked Spock in the eye. 

‘You’re having problems breathing,’ he stated. Spock nodded, his answer delayed by a shaking breath. 

‘You are most observant, doctor.’ His heart was not in the sarcastic comment; it seemed almost like an automatic reaction. McCoy did not heed it, only looked at the tubes of medicine and the readings, and then returned his concentration to the patient. 

‘When did they remove the oxygen?’ 

‘Sometime during the morning, shortly before you arrived. I cannot say when precisely,’ Spock answered, seemingly too weak to object when McCoy propped him up even more and made him lean his head back. 

‘Your time-sense not up to scratch, is it?’ he noted, but did not wait for an answer but pressed the button to call the nurse. When she arrived, she stopped in her stride when she saw the old man who suddenly had the bearing of a physician. 

‘How can I help?’ she asked hesitantly, approaching the bed. McCoy gestured to her not to bother and said: 

‘Get the doctor – there’s a good girl.’ Surprised but compelled to obey, she nodded and disappeared. Only moments later, she returned with doctor McGivers. He had just opened his mouth to speak when McCoy addressed him curtly. ‘Doctor McGivers, are you aware of that it borders on malpractice not to provide oxygen for a patient who is in need of it, or to remove it – which I can’t see why you did in the first place – and not check on the patient?’ 

‘We came to the conclusion, that as Captain Spock’s body is used to an atmosphere with a lower percentage of oxygen, and we thought it beneficial, as the atmosphere of Earth has a higher percentage of oxygen, to…’ 

‘Well, that’s not helping one bit,’ McCoy snorted. ‘I don’t know who taught you xenomedicine, but I hope that he made certain that you can’t just hope the _planet_ you happen to be on will fix your problems for you.’ 

‘Actually, sir, you were my teacher,’ the young doctor admitted, seeming to turn thoroughly petrified. ‘I had you for advanced xenophysiology in ’98, when you replaced Doctor Gashita for that year.’ McCoy took this revelation in his stride. 

‘Good, then you remember what I taught you and you know what this patient needs – oxygen at 35 percent and probably three milligrams of benjisidrine.’ 

‘With respect, doctor, my colleagues made the decision that…’ 

‘I don’t give a damn about your colleagues, kid – you know full well I’m right, so do it.’ For a moment, McGivers seemed to try to find something to say, but then sighed and said: 

‘Nurse, give him the nasal cannula again – oxygen at thirty-five percent at five LPM, and three milligrams of benjisidrine.’ He did not even wait for the nurse’s answer before he left the room. 

‘That was a bit harsh,’ Jim commented.

‘Kid doesn’t know how to do his job – here, let me do that. You go fix that hypo.’ McCoy picked the oxygen tube from the nurse’s hand and arranged it, placing the prongs of the tube in Spock’s nostrils and leading the tubes behind his ears. ‘That should help,’ he told him and left the bedside, taking up his place by the windows. 

‘You know who he’s related to, don’t you?’ Jim asked. There was a snort from the old doctor. 

‘Yes, I guessed as much. What is he? Her son?’ 

‘Nephew,’ he said, realising that he had never known that Lieutenant McGivers had a brother. Suddenly he was reminded of all the people who had died under his command who he had not known anything more about apart from their names and ranks; it seemed such a waste of human life. 

‘Funny,’ McCoy said, contempt in his voice. ‘You imagine doctors are all noble, and then it turns out that this one has an uncle bent on world-domination.’ 

‘You can’t blame him for that,’ Jim answered, not quite believing that his friend had just made that comment. 

‘You’re right,’ came the answer. ‘I’d almost value a bit of his gut in this boy. He’s a coward. I can’t believe the kind of people who become doctors nowadays…’ He fell silent, seeming to drift into thought.   
Jim moved higher up on the bedside and came to rest his hand on Spock’s arm, both to support him and to calm himself. Spock in turn placed his own hand over his, as if afraid that he would let go. Through the bond they exchanged assurances, and then Jim let his mind wander. The exchange between the two doctors had puzzled him; McCoy tended to be suspicious towards other medical practitioners, but twice now his behaviour had bordered to aggression or jealousy. . Watching his friend by the window, he guessed that it was something beyond the old doctor’s need for control. During the last three days, Bones had not stayed by Spock’s bedside for more than an hour without moving to the window, pacing, arguing with the doctors or leaving the room. Perhaps medical attention was the only way he could manifest his worry, and his inability to take control was making the situation completely debilitating. In some ways, Bones was worse with feelings than Spock was, despite their continuous bickering on the topic. 

Even if Spock obviously benefited from the treatment he had prescribed, McCoy remained uneasy the rest of their stay. He stayed by the window as the other two men spoke through the bond and verbally, and left for a while as they attempted another game of chess. Spock was growing tired again, and when he came back and noticed that, he suggested:

‘It’s half past four. Should we get going?’ When Jim was about to protest, he added: ‘We need to buy groceries before going back, if you want to cook with anything other than some rice and one egg.’ 

‘All right,’ Jim sighed and pressed Spock’s hand, turned towards him. ‘Duty calls,’ he said ironically. 

‘Have you grown bored with beans?’ the Vulcan asked, smiling slightly. 

‘I’m going to do the cooking, anyway,’ he said with a shrug as he snaked their fingers together. ‘You should get some sleep. It’ll make you better.’ Spock nodded obediently, then sent a thought through the connection. 

_Kiss me._ Jim hesitated. 

_Is that a good idea, when you’re this weak?_ he returned. 

_I am beyond caring,_ t’hy’la. _I will not be able to rest without it._ He could not help laughing; even if it sounded overdramatic and exaggerated, if he knew Spock right, it was true. Careful not to disturb the tube under his nose, he leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. For a moment, the bond flared up and begged him closer, but placing a hand on Spock’s cheek, he broke the kiss; he did not know if it was to give himself mental leverage to prise himself away or to stop Spock from following. In his bondmate he sensed the dull ache of dawning longing and the anticipation for the lonely night ahead. In himself, he felt the same, and the echoes through the bond amplified the feelings. 

‘Take care,’ he said, still caressing his cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Spock nodded and pressed his hand. Jim turned and went with McCoy, knowing that if he looked back he would end up staying even longer.   
In the air-car, McCoy’s annoyance and worry was tangible. He kept tapping a finger against the controls and occasionally swore under his breath, even when there were no other drivers who could be the reason. 

‘What is it?’ Jim asked at last, even if he knew that his worry had the same reason as his own. McCoy’s answer was evading, albeit specific. 

‘He hasn’t been this thin since Gol,’ he commented, the tapping increasing in strength. 

‘I know,’ Jim said automatically. When Spock returned to Starfleet and to Jim after his failed attempt at the _kohlinar_ , his cheeks had been hollow and his ribs showing; the first few months, he had seemed far too narrow and bony in his embrace. He had thought of his weight-loss fleetingly today, but had not reflected on the similarity to that time. ‘Still, it’s only been three days…’ 

‘You can lose a damned lot of weight in three days, if you’re not well and not eating, and he’s neither,’ McCoy pointed out, in a tone of voice which made it sound like it were Jim’s fault. He settled on not answering, and the doctor pressed on. ‘I’d bet you I could do this-‘ he put the tip of his thumb and middle finger together ‘-around his wrist. Sixty-eight kilos – for goodness’ sake, that’s disastrous! Why isn’t the man eating?’ 

‘His appetite was bad even before he fell ill,’ Jim noted, reining his irritation. ‘You know how he is – sometimes he just doesn’t have the appetite. He’s always been that way.’ 

‘Well, at the moment he needs to gain some weight if he’s to recover,’ McCoy said sharply, and the other man fell silent. Those kinds of ominous comments tended to take him by surprise, even if he knew they were for the most part true. Perhaps Spock’s good mood in the morning and Bones’ intervention in his treatment had obscured the real danger from him. Still, he seemed to swing between complete pessimism and utter faith in his recovery, often because of McCoy’s attempts to cheer him up or his tendency to state medical probabilities. 

When they reached the depressing apartment and he set about packing up the groceries and cooking dinner later on, his melancholic mood remained. They attempted to speak of other matters, but seemed to gravitate back to the topic at heart. They had finished dinner when Jim asked: 

‘How many times have you told me Spock was dying?’ McCoy let out his breath while thinking. 

‘I have no idea. About ten?’ 

‘Isn’t it more?’ 

‘Oh, perhaps it is. It’s ridiculous how many times he managed to get in harm’s way,’ the doctor noted, rising. When the other man was about to do the same, he gestured to him not to. ‘Wait – I thought we could use something else.’ He dug in a cupboard and retrieved a bottle of light-blue liquid. ‘I don’t have many bottles left, but considering you complained I didn’t get you Romulan ale for your birthday…’ He uncapped it and poured them both generous helpings of the liquour; Jim thought he could smell the strength of it even at this distance. When McCoy placed the glass in his hand and they tasted it, he felt his sinuses open up only at the smell of it, and noticed how his sight grew a bit hazy and his limbs heavy after one sip. Age had made him more susceptible to alcohol, but Romulan ale had always been a bit too strong for his taste. Still he savoured the intoxication now. He could do with forgetting what was going on. 

They nursed their drinks for a few minutes, then McCoy pointed out: 

‘It hasn’t always been Spock, though. You’re given us a few scares as well.’ He sighed. ‘Particularly during that business with the Tholians. We did open your last orders, you know, even if we said we didn’t. Can’t believe you told me to be nice to Spock.’ 

‘I thought you needed telling,’ Jim said, not altogether surprised at that they had opened those orders. ‘You’ve done it a few times as well, though. I was a bit afraid at Rura Penthe.’ McCoy shivered at the name. 

‘God, that horrible place. Felt like an ice-cube for a week afterwards.’ 

‘And the business with the xenopolycythemia,’ he added, and then regretted it at once. McCoy only nodded and did not comment. Jim could not tell whether he was already too drunk to remember that he had been given that diagnosis shortly before meeting Natira or he had simply let it go unnoticed because he did not wish to discuss the subject. He decided to find something else to say, but stayed on the subject. ‘You know, I thought you were completely out of reach after the Genesis business. Never felt so alone in my life.’ McCoy took a sip of the spirit and pulled a face. 

‘Barely thought I’d be myself at all after that.’ There was a certain irony in his voice; even if he did not admit to it properly, but he had never recovered fully from the events surrounding the _fal-tor-pan_. That thought lead Jim to another, which he had pondered the last few days. 

‘What did it feel like – the _katra_?’ Bones took a moment to think and then said: 

‘Sometimes it was a bit like being drunk, actually – like watching myself do things without having any real control over them. Sometimes I thought he’d blot me out completely. That made me feel… weak. Mentally inferior. Other times, there was a strange sincerity to it. A bit twisted, but…. Well. I guess it made me understand him – and you – better. It’s a strange thing, suddenly seeing inside someone’s mind like that.’ 

‘Was it painful when it was removed?’ He nodded. ‘Did you ever notice it, just after he transferred it?’ McCoy shook his head at this. 

‘It took me a week or so before I realised something was wrong. Guess I was a bit shocked before that.’ He must indeed be very drunk, if he admitted to that. ‘When he… _died_ , I didn’t feel anything. I mean, I didn’t feel anything happening in my head. Just… everything else.’ _Just like the breaking of the bond, then_ , Jim thought. He was roused from his thoughts by McCoy peering at him. ‘Why d’you ask, Jim?’ He shrugged. 

‘Just… in case,’ he said vaguely. Had he not been intoxicated, he did not know whether he would have been able to dodge the question, but the ale gave him a fool’s courage. McCoy did not press him any further, but slumped slightly, and after thinking for a few minutes he said: 

‘I wish I could do something, y’know. Make it easier for him, and for you. But I can’t – those kids have my hands tied to my back. I’m so used to being able to, so now…’ He sighed and emptied his glass. ‘Retirement is a stupid thing. I used to like it, but…’ Even in his drunken state, Jim could see that the subject they had been evading for two years was looming in front of them. He waited for it to come, but it did not. Instead Bones put down his glass, rubbed his eyes and said: 

‘I’m going to bed. Need to sleep this off. Just don’t empty the bottle on your own.’ 

‘No, I’m going as well,’ he said and they got up slowly and muttered good night, each going to his bed. Jim fell asleep quickly and dreamt of watching Spock play the lyre, trying to remember what danger was threatening them. He awoke several times, but always lapsed into the same dream, which became more and more eerie and empty for every time.


	8. Chapter 8

When Jim woke in the morning, the first thing he felt was a strange pressure to his chest. At first, he thought it was a sensation coming through the bond, but then he felt small claws forcing their way through the blanket and something furry tickling his nose, and he realised that McCoy’s cat sat perched on top of him. 

‘Shoo,’ he said and, pushing it off, he tried to sit up, but lay down at once again, as his head still spun with the remnants of Romulan ale. 

‘Care for this?’ When he opened his eyes he saw McCoy leaning over the back of the sofa with a cup of coffee. ‘It’s got detoxifier in it.’ 

‘Thanks,’ he muttered and accepted the cup. After drinking it and having a shower, he felt much better, and joined Bones for breakfast. His hangover was receding quickly, and once they came to the hospital, all which was left was a vague feeling of discomfort in his head. As they approached the room, his sense of Spock’s mind grew stronger, and he felt the other man’s fatigue pressing against the inside of his own skull. Still, when they entered, he found Spock awake, looking out of the window. At their arrival, he turned his face towards them and nodded slightly. 

‘Good morning, Jim – Doctor.’ They answered the greeting and came closer. When Jim sat down and touched his hand, he felt every detail of the tiredness he had sensed earlier. He found his presence soothing, but the feelings through the bond seemed dulled, as if there was a film between them. Jim wished he could tell whether Spock was in a good mood or not, but even if he noticed relief at his presence and he saw his eyes growing a little brighter when they met his, the weariness blotted out all else. Even if Spock stated that he had not slept well, it seemed to stem deeper, taking on sickly proportions. 

Still, Jim marvelled over that they seemed to have found a routine, despite that the situation they were in was completely alien. Jim held his hand while McCoy fretted around. They spoke occasionally, but mostly sat silently, minds touching. He insisted on feeding him, as he was still too weak to eat on his own, and the old doctor muttered about his lack of appetite. At last he managed to peel Jim from the bedside and make him have lunch; he made a half-hearted joke that this seemed like a golden opportunity to lose some weight, but it extracted no real reaction from the doctor. 

In the afternoon, McCoy grew restless, as he tended to do, and left the room at last. Jim moved closer to the bed and reached out to smooth out Spock’s hair. The Vulcan gave him a small, knowing smile, which he returned, feeling tenderness swelling in his chest. Even after all those years, he marvelled at how much mere eye-contact still affected him. It reminded him of how much stronger the connection between them still seemed to get, as if each breath weaved a new thread to their bond. They sat silently for a long while, one of Jim’s hands against the side of his head, the other on his shoulder, Spock’s grasping his arms. At length, he asked:

‘Would you read for me?’ Jim nodded, but letting go of him hurt almost physically. Finding his glasses, he picked up the book which had been indicated, _Var t’lamok be’t’hy’la_. This edition had the original text on one page and a translation on the opposing one. Jim ignored the Vulcan – he had never been able to learn the logographic writing system, and the whirls of the script had remained only pretty patterns to him – and started reading the English. He left out the poems which were too erotic, as nurses were moving in and out of the room. Instead, he read those which dealt with the affection and the trust shared by the _t’hy’la_ , even in the midst of battle. They were old poems, written long before the birth of Surak, during the time when Vulcans were warriors and the love between fellow soldiers was seen as an asset. This view stayed on despite the adoption of logic, and taking a _t’hy’la_ and following the way of the warrior instead of bonding with a female consort had never been seen as a lesser alternative. Still, this ancient poetry had a fierceness and passion which no contemporary full-blood Vulcan would praise beyond its literary value. That was just what made Jim so fond of the poems; they were wildly emotional in a way which paradoxically enough reminded him of Spock, as he was under his controls and shields. Now, he listened placidly, but he knew that the poems stirred him deeply as well. It was impossible not to think of what they shared when reading it. 

At last, Spock started to lapse into sleep. Jim did not stop reading, but finished the passage. 

‘ _For never shall T’Kuht shine brighter than the flashing of our shield, and never shall I leave thee on that field of green, without a lover to protect thee and to fight for thee. For all battles are worth the pain and the danger, if thou art my shield partner in the din._ ’ He closed the book and put it on the bed, reaching to touch Spock’s hand. He was not quite asleep, but he did not stir at the touch. A nurse who was adjusting the containers of medicine on the wall looked at them and smiled. 

‘That was a very beautiful poem,’ she observed. He nodded absentmindedly, his fingers against his bondmate’s skin. The girl was silent for a moment, then asked: ‘What does it mean, though – the field of green?’ Jim hesitated to answer. 

‘It’s a battle-field,’ he said at last. ‘The green is the blood of the fallen warriors.’ She looked at him as if she did not quite believe him. 

‘Oh. I thought the battles were just metaphorical.’ 

‘No – it’s old warrior poetry from Vulcan,’ Jim explained, happy he had not reached the really gruesome poems. He did not know whether he dared to read them; for many years after he got Spock back through the _fal-tor-pan_ he had not been able to stand them. The grief and longing in them was too charring, as it reminded him of what had happened to them. Still, the death described in the poems was not like this; they spoke of making that ultimate sacrifice for love, when one’s death would favour one’s _t’hy’la_ more than one’s sword would. Even after all they had been through, he found it a beautiful thought. It was a more honourable death than any other, but now, he did not need protecting through death – he needed his presence behind the shield, by his side, fighting whatever enemies the world might throw on them. 

He stood and kissed Spock’s brow. 

‘Not yet,’ he whispered. 

***

The reading of the Vulcan poetry seemed to have unsettled Jim. McCoy, whose mood was better than it usually was, tried to make conversation in the air-car, but only got murmured replies in return. He should have known that pondering the events eighteen years ago was a bad idea, but suddenly, he felt the sickening reality of what was happening, and choking fear for what could happen. It had made him more reluctant than usual to leave; Spock had been awake at that point, and Jim thought he had seen his eyes fill with sadness when McCoy suggested they should go home. Still, Spock had not voiced his disappointment, and his bondmate felt wretched as he pressed his hand and kissed his cheek. 

The apartment only served to depress him further, and his cooking was completely uninspired. When they finally sat down to eat, he realised he had spiced the food all too vigorously and in fact burnt parts of it. Bones did not comment, even if Jim thought he was entitled to. They ate in silence, and when they finished, McCoy suggested: 

‘Let’s go into the living-room. Nicer to sit there.’ He nodded, even if he did not agree; at least the kitchen did not have any empty shelves and boxes filled with a life. Still he followed him, and sat down on the sofa. 

‘Do you still keep in touch with Joanna?’ Jim asked, trying to find something to say. 

‘Sometimes,’ the old doctor answered, reaching to scratch the cat as it approached. ‘She gives me no end of trouble, but I try to call her every week or so. She usually kicks up a fuss every time, though, so I don’t know whether she really wants me to.’ 

‘Sure she does,’ the other man said. ‘That’s just kids – Alex, you know, Peter’s husband, always acts like Peter thinks I’m a silly old man, but I think that’s just what they do. It’s not like Peter has any parents who can call and bug him…’ He fell silent, regretting he had started thinking of his nephew. It reminded him of his brother’s death, which had of course affected him, but mostly it brought back the memories of Spock, first fighting the pain of the neural parasites, and then struck blind from the cure. Before his sight returned, it seemed like Spock would have to resign as first officer and perhaps leave Starfleet all-together. At that point, Jim had felt true desperation and had seriously considered marrying Spock then and there, just to keep him on the ship, even if they had only been in a relationship for less than half a year. However, his preoccupation with Spock’s well-being meant that he had almost forgotten about his nephew, and instead of being able to feel true worry, he had only felt guilt over caring more for Spock than for his own family. Despite everything, it had not occurred to him that perhaps Spock _was_ his family. He had been relieved when Peter had been cured, but it was not a match to the thrill he felt when his first officer had come onto the bridge, his blindness gone. He sighed; there did not seem to be anything he could think of nowadays. 

His distress must have shown. 

‘You know, going over and over it in your head won’t make anything better,’ McCoy said. ‘It’ll only make it seem worse.’ 

‘How could it seem any worse?’ Jim snorted, and was happy he did not receive an answer. For a few minutes, all he heard was the cat’s purring and mewing from where it lay in McCoy’s lap. At last he said: ‘He seemed so agitated when we left – as if he wanted me to stay.’ 

‘You know, having you there probably exhausts him,’ Bones pointed out. ‘Aren’t you looking for a reason to stay?’ Then he added: ‘I don’t mean he doesn’t _want_ you there, I’m just saying that it can be pretty daunting. He needs rest and peace and quiet to recover, so we can’t be there all the time.’ The plural in the last clause made Jim briefly feel gratitude towards the man, who had included himself in it. Still, what he was saying did not make his mood any better. 

‘I’m just afraid something will happen,’ he explained. McCoy nodded silently, looking at him while patting his cat.

‘We can get to the hospital in under ten minutes,’ he said, but Jim did not heed him. 

‘If I’m not there…’ He interrupted himself and then tried again. ‘If _it_ happens…’ Bones cut him off. 

‘Then there’s nothing you can do.’ His tone was calm, but Jim suddenly remembered what had happened the last time. 

‘You’re wrong,’ he pointed out. ‘If I’m there, I could save him…’ At that, McCoy rose, suddenly irritated, and let down the cat. 

‘Stop obsessing over this _katra_ business,’ he exclaimed. ‘If he dies, then he’s dead, and that’s all.’ Jim watched him, feeling a cold sense of steadfastness overtake him. 

‘You know I can’t accept that.’ 

‘Well, you need to,’ Bones answered sharply. 

‘No, I don’t,’ he snapped back. The old doctor froze and looked at him with something bordering on fear in his eyes. When he spoke, it was in the tone one would use to calm a madman. 

‘Jim, if he dies, you _need_ to let him go.’ 

‘But I can’t,’ Jim shouted and got to his feet as well. His inhibitions seemed to have been loosened by his inner turmoil, and suddenly he found himself capable of saying things which he would usually not even confide in Bones. ‘There’s no way I can live without him…’ 

‘I’m _sorry_ , but there may come a time when you have to,’ he continued, still deadly calm. 

‘You don’t know how it is,’ he said accusingly. ‘When a bond breaks… You don’t know how it feels when death’s pulling at you – how it is to be that alone…’ 

‘How do you _dare_ say I don’t know?’ McCoy shouted back, calm breaking and hands balling into fists. ‘What makes you special, Jim? That bond?’ 

‘It’s stronger than anything _you’ve_ ever experienced,’ Jim pointed out. Some part of him which still had sense told him that he was pushing too far, but he could not heed it. 

‘So love alone isn’t enough now?’ he answered vehemently. ‘Jim Kirk, you need to stop imagining that you don’t play by the same rules as other people. I hoped you’d realise that all those years ago, but now you just seem to think that it’s a right to challenge death rather than a grace…’ 

‘It’s not a right – it is the Vulcan way.’

‘No, it’s not, it’s a legend and as far as we know, it’s only been done once, and that one time happened to have been on Spock. Do you really want to press your luck and imagine you can do it again?’ 

‘It worked once – why can’t it work again?’ Jim exclaimed. 

‘Because people die and if you live on, you have to accept it,’ McCoy spat. ‘If this _is_ a _Kobiyashi Maru_ , then deal with it, _Captain_. This time there’s no way out.’ 

‘You’ve turned bitter, Bones,’ he observed, voice seething. ‘Bitter and old and jealous…’ 

‘ _Jealous_?’ he shouted back. 

‘You’ve begrudged me Spock these past two years,’ he observed, ‘and now you think I should let him die so I can turn just as pathetic as you.’ 

‘That’s a lie!’ McCoy exclaimed, turning white at what he heard. ‘For goodness’ sake, man, listen to yourself! You can’t go on cheating death – didn’t you understand that after Khan? Or on Genesis – what about your son?’ 

‘It’s not the same thing,’ Jim said, admitting it for the first time. He had never mourned his son’s death, but his son’s life, which he had never become a part of. Any father would, if his son had not yet come to address him in any other manner than “sir”. But it had not in any way been like the loss of Spock, whether the old one or the one which might be imminent. 

‘ _You’re_ pathetic, Jim,’ McCoy said, sounding helpless. ‘Can’t you hear yourself? You’re living on false hope. At least I’ve never deluded myself.’

‘But I don’t have to lose him, Bones,’ Jim insisted. ‘I can bring him back.’ He felt himself reeling at the thought and at what Bones was saying. 

‘Stop believing it – what if he does die, and you find you can’t? What will that do to you? He stopped and swallowed and continued with a slight tremor of his voice. ‘He got some extra time – can’t you let that be enough?’ 

‘No, I can’t give up on him,’ Jim said. 

‘Get used to the idea,’ he told him coldly. 

‘D’you know what, Bones? You’re projecting.’ 

‘And you’re in denial – and don’t try to psychoanalyse me, because you can’t,’ he snapped. 

‘Why are you so against the idea of me hosting his _katra_?’ Jim asked, starting to move around the room, not breaking eye-contact. ‘You _are_ jealous, aren’t you? Afraid that I’ll take that prestige away from you – that one little bit of Spock which you can lay claim on yourself?’ Are you afraid I’ll prove you wrong?’ 

‘I know what it does to you and by God, I wouldn’t wish it one anyone,’ he whispered wide-eyed, as if what he heard scared and appalled him. ‘I have a goddamn hole in my head, Jim – that thing ruined me. All I can do is fill it with mad thoughts. Don’t you understand that it’d destroy your mind?’ 

‘As long as it gives me Spock back, I can endure it. There’s where you and I are different, Bones – I don’t care what it does to me, as long as it saves him.’ 

‘ _You’ve_ gone mad, Jim.’ 

‘I’d do it because I love him - people save the ones they love.’ 

‘So what I felt wasn’t love?’ McCoy asked, and something within him seemed to break. ‘How can you think I wouldn’t have done it, if I could have saved Natira? You don’t have to share minds to love someone, you know, and I would have _died_ , if it would have saved her…’ The last few words were barely audible, and despite seething with anger and clenching his jaw, his eyes were filled with tears. ‘I did everything I could,’ he whispered and sat down, shielding his face in his hands.  
Jim watched him, shock rising within him and freezing his rage. 

‘I’m… I’m sorry, Bones,’ he said. His voice trembled and seemed to be impossible to raise over a whisper. 

‘I bloody hope you are,’ McCoy answered through gritted teeth. Then he lowered his hands and looked at him accusingly. Only then Jim realised that he had never seen his friend cry before. He was the kind who did not go blotched and red-eyed of it; instead, big tears only rolled down his creased cheeks, making his eyes gleam. Jim tried to find something to say, but could only repeat, ‘I’m sorry.’ It seemed to bear no more weight than before, and at last he realised that there was only one other thing he could do. Making up his mind, he sat down beside Bones and pulled him into a hug. It took a moment before he reciprocated, but then did so with a sigh. ‘You’re a complete idiot,’ he muttered, resting his forehead against the other man’s shoulder. 

‘I know,’ Jim said and felt tears in his own eyes, but blinked them away. 

‘Don’t ever imply I didn’t love Natira.’ McCoy was still speaking through gritted teeth, but his voice had lost its vehemence. 

‘I know you did.’ Still, he was certain that was not all Bones had intended to say; this was about Spock as much as about Natira. They stayed silent for a while, until McCoy patted him on the back and pulled away. Jim let him, trying to remember when he last hugged him; coming to think of it, he was not certain he had ever done it properly. 

Now, McCoy was busy wiping his face on his sleeve. 

‘Great job, Jim,’ he muttered. ‘Still, I guessed it needed out.’ He rose and, waving away his offer of his handkerchief, went to fetch a tissue. When he returned, still blowing his nose, Jim decided to speak. 

‘Bones – what happened to Natira wasn’t your fault.’ The man stopped and swallowed. 

‘I could have done so much more – could have done more research about how the virus affected hybrids. I could have brought her to hospital more quickly. I could have moved to the Fabrini home-world in the first place, and none of it would’ve happened.’ He sighed and the air of melancholy lifted slightly from him. ‘Still, I know after all those years of practice, that you can’t ever blame yourself.’ Then he looked up. ‘You do know that if something happens to Spock, it’s not your fault either?’ Jim only nodded, even if he felt like shaking his head. McCoy did not seem to pay any heed to it, as his thoughts had started to wander. ‘I’m sorry about the things I said,’ he said at last. ‘They were pretty… extreme.’ Jim shrugged. 

‘I guess I needed to hear them.’ 

‘You know, there’s no need it has to go that way,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ 

‘It feels like we’re either over-optimistic or totally pessimistic,’ Jim observed. 

‘We’ll make it work,’ Bones said decisively. ‘Even if that means me taking over and making all those kids out of a job.’ He had to laugh at that. 

‘Almost wish you would.’ 

‘They’d hate me even more than they already do,’ McCoy observed musingly. As they were exchanging sentiments, Jim decided this would be a good time to voice what he had thought the last two years. 

‘You should move.’ McCoy looked around the living-room with a sigh. 

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. I should at least do something about this mess…’ He moved over to one of the boxes and looked at it. ‘But that’ll have to be tomorrow,’ he said then. ‘It’s past ten – we should get some sleep.’ 

‘Past ten, already?’ Jim asked. McCoy shrugged. 

‘Yes – obviously we _are_ getting old.’ He scooped up the cat, who had been hiding under the sofa for most of the fight but had slunk out again. ‘Come on, kitty. G’night, Jim.’

‘Night,’ he said, feeling relieved. When he stood up he felt a little awkward, though, as Bones had not left yet. Obviously he was feeling a need to touch his friend as well, because at last they patted one another on the shoulder and repeated their good nights. Once Jim had gotten ready and made the bed, he fell asleep more easily than he had for many days. 

***

‘Jim.’ He was stirred by a hand on his shoulder and his name being said from far away. For a moment he struggled against wakefulness, but then suddenly his eyes were open and he turned to see Bones crouching by the sofa. The first thing he noticed was that it was still dark outside. The second was McCoy’s blue eyes, watching him silently. He blinked and raised himself on an elbow, wondering why he had been woken. The man did not need prompting, but spoke, his voice calm and measured after years of training. ‘They called from the hospital.’ 

Jim sat up fully, feeling how the world under him stopped revolving. Everything was silence and all he could do was to wait for McCoy to speak. 

‘Spock’s having a bad night,’ he explained and then looked away for a moment, as if to center himself. ‘His heart stopped beating. They managed to restart it.’ Jim bit his lip, wondering what this meant. ‘They think you should come in.’ 

All he could do was nod and get out of bed. He was dressed within a minute. 

‘Let’s go,’ was all he could muster. McCoy nodded and headed for the door, grabbing his keys on the way. 

They were used to emergencies, especially in one another’s company. Still it was not until Jim sat down in the air-car and Bones started the engines that it became clear to him what emergency they were facing now. What they had discussed and rejected over the last few days was happening. If they called to ask them to come, there was no ambiguity in what was about to happen. An old memory came fleeting back to him against his will. _Jim, I think you’d better get down here. Better hurry._

_Hurry…_ he thought, and noticed that McCoy was driving well over the speed-limit. His face was completely blank, apart from a tension in his jaw. Jim wondered if the other man felt the same sense of nothingness as he did. He had thought he would want to cry and scream, but he felt even beyond apathy. 

When he felt for the bond in his mind, it seemed only a flicker, almost indistinguishable. He decided to concentrate on it, hoping to make it grow stronger, but it remained constant and weak. As they approached the hospital, he felt it coming closer, but it did not become brighter. Still it served like a star to navigate after, as they went through the silent corridors. The building had always been subdued, but now it seemed mute and padded. As they drew closer to the xenomedic ward, he started seeing faces he recognised, many of who nodded or smiled at him. They all seemed tentative, as if they knew what he was doing here at two o’clock in the morning. 

No one objected when they entered the room which they had grown so familiar to. It was dimmer than in the day, and the semi-darkness enveloped Spock, who seemed to blend with the sheets in his pallor. He was wearing an oxygen mask, but they had not added anything else. There were medics in the room, but he did not heed them and only noticed the nurse who was sitting by the bedside. To Jim’s surprise, she was holding his hand. At first it made him suspicious, but then he understood that she did it for a very specific reason. When she looked up and smiled at him, he realised that she was using his telepathy to instill calm into him and show to him that he was not alone. 

‘I’m Heloise,’ she said, standing up, but not letting go of him. ‘I think he needs you.’ Jim nodded and approached the bed. He did not think he had ever seen Spock look so old or so pale. When he touched his skin, there was almost no answer from the bond. He drew up a chair and grasped his hand, thinking, _I’m here,_ willing him to hear it. Still he felt that Spock’s mind had sunken deep and would only hear the echo of his voice. Heloise went for the door, but exchanged a few words with McCoy first together with a few of the other medics. Then he also sat down. Jim followed his gaze to the monitors on the wall; they were all low, and the light indicating pulse was far too slow. Then the doctor averted his eyes, as if he knew full well what they were telling him, and reached out, chastely sliding his thumb under Spock’s palm and covering the back of his hand with his palm. Jim had not expected that, but Bones looked at him and gave a minute nod, as if to seal his own presence. He nodded back and returned his eyes to Spock. 

They held his hands as if it would prevent him from falling, they weaved their gaze around him to keep him safe from the world. They left the silence unbroken, as if it would protect them. Jim knew that all they could do was to wait it out, which meant they were completely helpless. From the fragments of the doctors’ conversation he discerned, it was clear that there was nothing they could do except to wait. He still felt an unsettling feeling of calm within; he could not quite connect this to reality. Nevertheless, fear had started possessing him. Every time Spock’s chest fell, he held his breath until it rose again. Every time the pulse indicator beeped, he listened, afraid that another sound would not come. Every time he felt the glint of light, which was the bond, change in intensity, he bit his lip, willing it not to go out. 

The medics who were in the room did not disturb them, but seemed to think that their presence did more good than medicine could. All they did was to offer them nods and hands on their shoulders. Jim was grateful, but it seemed like all he could concentrate on was holding onto Spock’s hand, chanting in his head for him to come back, pull through, hold on. He did not stir and the hand in his grip remained lax. 

It was well past four o’clock when McCoy broke the silence. 

‘Jim, you’ll need to make a decision, you know,’ he said softly. ‘About what to do if his heart stops again.’ 

‘We keep trying,’ Jim answered, almost before he had ended the sentence. Then he looked at him and said: ‘I can’t give up on him, whatever it takes.’ McCoy watched him for a moment and then smiled morosely, observing: 

‘You wouldn’t be Jim Kirk if you’d have answered anything else.’ They nodded in agreement and returned to their vigil. 

It started to dawn. The cold light made the sky turn grey, but shot through the window and seemed to become a presence in the room as it spread and filled it. No one spoke without good reason; sometimes some of the medics would exchange whispers, but Jim would not register them as speech. Spock was still as pale as when they arrived and the movements of his chest were almost indiscernable. It seemed like his hand, which was always so warm, was cooling. Jim only grabbed it harder, but was irrationally afraid that it would break in his grip. 

_I’m here. Stay with me – please, stay. There’s so much we’ve got left, Spock – things we’ve never done and things we want to do again. It isn’t supposed to end like this; not for you. It’s me who should die first – either that or we die together. Don’t, Spock, don’t. Stay with me. Stay…_

McCoy suddenly stood up, and Jim was pulled out of his reverie. 

‘Bones?’ 

‘The K2 factor,’ he said, watching the readings. One of the medics – McGivers, it seemed – moved forward to look. ‘It’s rising.’ Then he turned to him and said: ‘Whatever you do, don’t let go of his hand. He might be using your thoughts to strengthen himself, and the shock of losing that connection might push him over the edge.’ Then he whispered, still holding Spock’s hand: ‘C’mon, you green-blooded old Vulcan. Don’t die on us, for goodness’ sake.’ 

Jim glanced at the readings, and felt his heart jump when he saw the pointers starting to climb upwards. He pressed Spock’s hand, not so much willing as begging. _Please – please – my_ t’hy’la, _please live…_ He felt the anticipation rising in the room, and the sound of people shifting from foot to foot was heard. McCoy was watching the readings, murmuring encouragements. 

‘Yes, good – steady now…’ In the meantime, Doctor McGivers stood by the end of the bed, also studying the monitors intently. There were several more medics in the room, but Jim could not tell how many; he did not dare to look away from Spock. He could feel the change in him as well as see it; there was a familiar tingling in his skin, and although there was no real answer, he felt his mind. He reached out for it, beckoning it into the light. Through the bond, he felt its approach; it was as if he saw the glow of it behind his own eyes, trying to come to him. 

Suddenly the light dwindled, and he heard a stir in the room. 

‘Nurse – dalaphaline, 10 cc’s,’ McGivers said hurriedly. Bones was on his feet again, still holding on to Spock’s hand. Jim looked up, and saw what had caused the motion; the pulse light was blinking erratically, turning more and more irregular, and the arrows started to plummet, even as he felt Spock’s mind slipping deeper down again. He called his name both in his head and out loud, willing his heart not to stop. The hiss of the hypospray was heard. A moment of silence, where Jim thought he could only hear his own heart beating. Then he felt Spock’s heart as if it were inside him, beating carefully at first, then quicker and harder. He heard the doctor on duty sigh with relief, and McCoy laugh quietly. When Bones sat down again, the two old men exchanged looks. From his relieved face and the way the medics started moving and talking, Jim understood that the crisis was over. Still neither of them let go of Spock, but concentrated on projecting calm and hope into him. There was a mental stir in the Vulcan’s skin, and Jim felt his presence close. 

Soon, McGivers approached again. 

‘The readings are stabilising,’ he explained. ‘That was a bit of a scare, but he seems to have pulled through fine. There’s no sign of any damage after the cardiac arrest, and he reacted well to the dalaphine.’ 

‘When will he wake up?’ Jim asked. The young man shrugged. 

‘It could take days,’ he admitted. ‘We have to be patient. But he will – it’s looking promising.’ Jim could not think of anything else to ask; the reassurance was enough. They said good-bye and he left; McCoy smiled after him. 

‘I might like that kid,’ he concluded. ‘Perhaps he knows what he’s doing after all.’ 

Only a few minutes later, Jim felt a pair of hands being placed on his shoulders. When he looked up he saw Mary, one of the nurses, smiling at him. 

‘Can I get the two of you some coffee?’ 

‘That’d be great, sweetheart,’ McCoy answered for them both. She smiled, almost sarcastically as if to shake off the endearment. Within a few minutes she returned with coffee and two sandwiches, which made the old doctor flatter he even more. When she left them he only shrugged and said: ‘Ah, nurses – can’t believe the job they do. I’d be rubbish at it.’ Jim shrugged as well, but could find no answer. He seemed unable to prise his eyes away from Spock. His breathing was a little more prominent now, which made him thankful. It was not until now he realised how much the events in the last few hours had shaken him, and despite being hungry, it look a long time to finish his sandwich. The coffee was very welcome; it calmed his nerves and made him feel more focused, even if he was able to function only four hours of sleep even after all these years. The thought of their years on the _Enterprise_ brought another realisation. 

‘Oh god,’ he murmured. 

‘What is it?’ Bones asked, edging closer on his chair. 

‘I just realised what date it is today,’ he said quietly. ‘March twenty-eight.’ McCoy’s face fell. 

‘Oh.’ They both knew all too well what had happened on that date exactly eighteen years ago now. Jim pressed Spock’s hand a little harder. 

‘It seems like these kinds of things tend to happen around my birthday, doesn’t it?’ he said with a laugh, but it came out choked. ‘I’ll just have to stop celebrating them.’ 

‘Don’t be silly,’ the other man said weakly, but his eyes travelled to the man in the bed. They had come far too close to losing him tonight. Now the realisation of what had almost happened flooded him and grabbing Spock’s hand with both his own, he succumbed to the temptation to cry. For a moment all that seemed to anchor him to the world was his grip around Spock’s hand, but then someone grabbed his shoulder. When he looked up, the same compassionate eyes which had greeted him when he had woken up that night watched him. Gratefully he grabbed his arm, even as he brought Spock’s hand closer to his chest, savouring its reassuring heat.


	9. Chapter 9

Spock was still unconscious when they came to the hospital next morning. They had left much earlier than usual the previous day; Jim had been reluctant, but it grew obvious that McCoy was not able to function as well as he on only a few hours’ sleep. Whether the reason was the nature of his old profession or his age was uncertain, but at last they went home. They called several times to ask how Spock was, and received the same calming answer every time. When Jim entered the room and saw that he had not yet awoken, he felt strangely relieved; he had been afraid that Spock would regain consciousness when he was not there to calm and comfort him. 

Now, everything seemed like before the crisis. The only differences were that there was always a nurse in the room and that Spock had an IV in one of his arms once again. The monitors blinked and sounded, the sun filtered into the room and the mental tingle of his skin was almost palpable. They had removed the oxygen mask and put back the simpler tube again, which Jim was grateful for. The mask had obscured far too much of his face to make him comfortable. 

‘Does he seem better?’ Jim asked. 

‘Sure,’ McCoy, who was leaning against the bed-stead. ‘He looks a bit pale, but that’s just to be expected.’ After a glance upwards he concluded: ‘The readings are on the weak side, but they’re stable. It’s not surprising if they’re a bit below average, though, considering what he’s been through the last twenty-four hours.’ The other man smiled weakly for an answer. He was not quite ready to think of just how close he had come to losing him again. He had done it far too many times already. 

They spoke quietly about trivial things, both letting their gaze wander to Spock ever so often. His hand was covered by Jim’s; the wordless answer from his mind was comforting. 

After several hours, he thought he felt a stir in it. Silencing McCoy with a gesture, he leaned forward and thought he saw the muscles of Spock’s face working. The two men exchanged looks, and the old doctor bit his lip in anticipation. Then the Vulcan’s eyes fluttered open, staring into thin air. For a moment, he was completely still, then Jim felt his arm moving, and drew back to free it. Spock raised his hand slowly, and at first his bondmate wondered if he was not quite awake and the movement was unconscious, but then he weakly turned his palm towards him and even if his fingers shook, they parted between his middle and ring finger. The gesture seemed chillingly familiar, and he reached out for his hand, grabbing and kissing it forcefully. _There is no glass between us now,_ he thought as he cradled it against his cheek. _I can reach him._

‘Jim?’ he rasped. 

‘It’s fine, Spock, it’s fine,’ Jim whispered. One of Spock’s fingers must have grazed a meld-point, because he felt their minds converging briefly. 

‘I… was dying,’ he said, his voice still raw from disuse. Before anyone had time to answer, he seemed to try to sit up, but all it did was to make his breath catch. 

‘There, lie still,’ McCoy ordered, grabbing his shoulder. ‘Don’t try to move.’ Despite his panting breaths, he managed to acknowledge his presence with a nod. When his breath had steadied again, he asked: 

‘What… happened? I cannot remember…’ 

‘Night before last you were in a bad state,’ the old doctor explained. ‘Bad enough to make your heart stop, but they got it going again. For a few hours there, we weren’t sure you were going to make it.’ 

‘My… present condition?’ he asked, as if he was unable to construct a whole sentence. 

‘Much as before that,’ McCoy answered, his hand still on his shoulder. ‘Give yourself some time – you’ll be fine.’ Spock nodded and coughed again; the nurse, who had been hovering just out of sight, stepped forward and held a tissue to his lips. The patient waved him away, as if embarrassed to be that weak. The nurse conceded and drew back. 

‘I’ll get the doctor,’ he said and left. Spock moved the hand Jim was holding so that he could grasp his. 

‘I am sorry for… causing you such obvious distress,’ he whispered. Jim laughed hollowly, trying to find something to say which did not sound bland and silly. He only pressed his hand and brushed his lips against it in a show of affection. 

The sound of the door opening was heard, followed by a voice: 

‘Well now, you’re awake.’ Doctor Raulsson had entered and was approaching the bed. Jim grudgingly let go of Spock’s hand and moved aside to let the man come forward. He leaned over him, obscuring Jim’s view, and seemed to be looking at him. ‘How do you feel?’ 

‘Much as one could expect, considering I was dying yesterday,’ Spock answered, and his bondmate had to stifle a laugh. At least his sense of humour was intact. ‘To be precise, I feel tired and sore, and am experiencing a certain tightness in the chest, as well as some difficulty breathing.’ His voice was still hoarse, but sounded more practised now. 

Raulsson did not seem particularly entertained by his oddly placed wit, but only snorted and found a medical scanner. After some time, he concluded, straightening up: 

‘Well, you made a lucky escape. You certainly look better. We will up the metrazene to one-hundred and fifty and the benjisidrine a few milligrams more. Have your next-of-kin told you what happened the night before yesterday?’ Spock nodded. 

‘I understand that I suffered cardiac arrest.’ 

‘Yes, that’s true. Your husband made a decision that we would restart your heart if it stopped again, but at the time that was not necessary. We need to know what your opinion is, for your file,’ he explained, as if he would rather it was not needed. Jim felt Spock reaching for him briefly through the bond, and then heard him answer: 

‘If that was my bondmate’s wish, doctor, then it is also mine. I am aware of the possible complications of such procedures, but I believe my death to be considerably less desirable.’ Raulsson looked rather taken aback at the reply, which was rather more eloquent than he seemed to have expected. 

‘Very well. It’s noted.’ Then he looked at Jim and gave the impression of addressing them all. ‘The professor of Vulcan medicine at the Academy will be coming here tomorrow, sometime in the morning. His opinion might be valuable in this case.’ Without waiting for acknowledgement he turned and left. Jim took his place at the bedside again and said: 

‘Are you sure doctors appreciate gallows humour?’ 

‘Gallows humour?’ Spock said weakly, but there was a tug in one of his eyebrows. ‘I am guilty of no such thing.’ 

‘Yeah, try to act innocent,’ McCoy snorted, thinly veiling a smile. ‘Raulsson is not a member of your fanclub – but, mind you, he’s the kind of man who should go into pathology, where he could have his patients either absent or dead.’ Jim laughed and then gave Spock an appreciative smile. Almost instinctively, he reached out to rearrange his hair; he tended to think it looked quite charming when it was mussed up, but now he wanted it to be as neat as it tended to be in the daytime, in order to make Spock seem less bedridden. The signs which had disturbed him earlier – the prominent blood-vessels, the hypo-induced bruises and the occasional occurrence of encrusted blood – were still there, but if such a trivial thing as his hair was as regulation-like as it usually was, the overall impression was one of a healthier man. Those dark eyes met his, and he gripped his hand hard, feeling his pulse and his mind in it. He could still not think of anything to say which was potent enough to explain his relief, but as Spock reached over and touched his hand with his free one, he was certain he knew. 

Sitting there almost made him forget the physical world, but he was not quite beyond the needs of his own body yet. Therefore, he excused himself after a while and went to answer a call of nature. On his way back to Spock’s room, he spotted a vaguely familiar face, and identified the woman as Heloise, the calm nurse. When she saw him, she stopped and gave him a subdued smile. 

‘Good morning, Heloise.’

‘Good morning, Captain,’ she said. ‘How are you? You must have a trying few days recently.’ 

‘I guess it shows,’ he sighed with a smile. ‘I’m all right. At least Spock’s better.’ She nodded understandingly, and Jim could not help wonder how many old couples she had seen here, and how many worried spouses left on their own in the end. 

‘That must be a great comfort,’ she said. ‘It’s remarkable how well he seems – must be your good influence.’ 

‘Yours helps as well, I think,’ Jim answered and touched her arm affectionately. She smiled at him and returned the gesture, and they both continued in opposite directions. 

When he reached the door, he paused. There were distinct voices coming through the gap, and something made him reluctant to enter at once. 

‘…Guess I can’t really deny you that. What do you want me to do?’ 

‘It is only a matter of relating something to Jim.’ While McCoy’s voice had sounded uncertain, Spock’s was perfectly measured. ‘Doctor McCoy, if I were to die before Jim…’ There was a pause, and Jim had time to peer through the gap of the door. He saw his bondmate with his hands steepled, a gesture which brought back memories of many pre-mission briefings years ago. McCoy sat by the bedside, his hands folded and his elbows planted on his knees. ‘If that were to happen, I would like you to tell him of Rayna Kapec.’ Jim frowned, as this name said him nothing. Had he been a more jealous man, he would have jumped to conclusions about Spock’s fidelity, but he knew him far too well to come with such suspicions. Even if he knew should make his presence known, he remained silent at the door. ‘You are aware of what I did?’ 

‘Yes,’ McCoy sighed and tapped his temple, as if not wanting to make a verbal reference to hosting his _katra_. 

‘What I did was… highly unethical,’ Spock said, staring into his lap as his hands clenched. 

‘You did it for Jim,’ the human pointed out. ‘Besides, that was decades ago.’ 

‘I still wish him to know,’ he explained. ‘Even if I would not want him to remember me in that light, it feels wrong to withhold that knowledge.’ 

‘I’ll tell him,’ McCoy said reassuringly. ‘Not at once, though – when he’s calmed down a bit.’ Spock hesitated, then said: 

‘Thank you, doctor. I… appreciate it.’ Bones looked a bit embarrassed. 

‘It’s… fine. I’m glad to do it, if I have to.’ After a moment of silence he asked: ‘Anything else you want me to do?’ Spock seemed to think, and then answered slowly. 

‘Care for him, doctor. He will need friends he can trust. I do not wish to imply that my _t’hy’la_ is weak, but I fear how he would react to my death, as I fear how I would react to his.’ 

‘Of course,’ McCoy answered. He swallowed before speaking again. ‘Spock, if nothing very dramatic happens, you’ll make a full recovery. You know that, don’t you?’ 

‘I am aware that I am considerably better, but there is no guarantee I will not again take a turn to the worse,’ Spock explained. ‘I do not wish to be surprised by that moment, doctor, whether it comes within the next few days or in several years.’ The old doctor nodded with his eyes averted, as if thinking. 

‘Do you have memories from when you were… inside my head?’ he asked at last. 

‘No,’ Spock admitted. ‘How come you ask?’ 

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘It was just something I said – just thought, if you remembered it…’ 

‘If you would like me to…’ The Vulcan extended a hand towards him, but McCoy jerked back noticeably from it. 

‘No. It’s fine – it wasn’t important. Don’t worry about it.’ He looked away again, seeming to ponder what they had spoken of before, but was not able to keep his silence. ‘Don’t do it, Spock,’ he said with strained voice. ‘It’d kill him – you know that.’ A pause, then: 

‘Yes. I know. I am not planning to give in.’ Jim saw how a small smile flickered over Bones’ face, and he patted the Vulcan awkwardly on the shoulder. 

‘Good – happy to hear it.’ 

The eavesdropper, feeling slightly guilty at overhearing this exchange, thought it fit to enter at this point. He noticed McCoy looked a little alarmed, but Spock seemed calm. It would not surprise him if he knew that he had been just outside the door all the time. They took up their conversation where they had left it; the humans mostly spoke, while Spock came with observations once in a while. After some time, McCoy sighed and admitted: 

‘Sorry, I’m like an animal in a cage. I’m going for a walk before I go all fidgety.’ 

‘See you in a bit,’ Jim said, while Spock simply nodded a good-bye. The former could not help feeling relief, albeit with a hint of guilt, at being alone with his bondmate; there seemed like so much he wished to articulate which did not want out. For a long time, he sat with Spock’s hand in both of his, running his thumbs over the back of it. He had not expected the other man to be the one to speak first. 

‘I must admit, Jim, that when I awoke… what I saw in your mind scared me.’ 

‘What did you see?’ he asked, looking up. His bondmate watched him for a moment before answering. 

‘Myself… dying. Dead. Both now, and from many years back.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should… have shielded it.’ 

‘It is not surprising that you thought of such things,’ Spock said, his hand closing around his. Jim shrugged and looked away. 

‘It was so close, that’s all,’ he sighed. ‘I really thought I’d lost you – more than once - that night.’ The Vulcan looked pained at this, so he reached and stroked his face. ‘I’m… so grateful to still have you,’ he managed to say, touching his lips. He felt them move and kiss his skin weakly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’ Once again he felt the pressure around his hand tighten. Jim felt himself on the verge of starting to cry, and that was something he did not want to do; even if he did not mind weeping in front of Spock, he was afraid it would agitate him, and it was essential to keep him calm. 

‘I understand,’ Spock whispered, his other hand closing around his arm. It seemed as if he were referring to everything. Jim just nodded and waited until he could trust his voice. 

‘I had a fight with Bones the other day,’ he told him, reluctant to discuss recent events. When an inquisitive eyebrow was raised, he explained: ‘It was stupid, really. It was sort of about you and – well – all this, but sort of about Natira as well.’ 

‘Did he attempt to discuss the matter?’ the Vulcan wondered, obviously surprised. Over the past two years, they had repeatedly discussed their friend’s reluctance to deal with his loss. The answer came with an indecisive shrug. 

‘I don’t know if I’d call it “discuss”,’ he admitted. ‘But he was the first to mention her. We didn’t talk about it very much, but… yesterday he put up her photograph again and started moving some of those damned boxes away. I’ve promised to help him put them in the attic today.’ Spock smiled bleakly. 

‘That is indeed an improvement.’ Jim nodded, but his thoughts had left those concerns and moved onto the man in bed. Changing his grip, he took both his hands in a firm grip. 

‘Darling,’ he said, hearing his own exhaustion, ‘Promise to get better.’ Those profound, dark eyes watched him and beckoned him, and before registering that he had moved, he was leaning forward and being precariously kissed. That was all the promise he needed. 

***

‘Damn, damn, damn…’ Jim chanted under his breath as he little by little lowered his aching knees onto the floor. 

‘What on earth are you doing?’ McCoy asked upon entering the living-room. He looked disgustingly amused; seeing an overweight former starship captain crawling on the floor was perhaps funnier than Jim had realised it would be. 

‘I can’t find my bloody glasses,’ he explained. Swearing made it feel better. 

‘I thought you had them in that ribbon Spock gave you last year, so you _wouldn’t_ lose them,’ Bones said. 

‘I don’t put them around my neck until after getting dressed, and I was just doing that,’ the man on the floor pointed out as he peered under the sofa. 

‘Can’t it wait until after breakfast? Oh, there they are.’ The doctor crossed the room and picked up a pair of silver-rimmed glasses with a plaited ribbon fastened to the temple arms close to the wall. Jim got up slowly and accepted them, thanking him gruffly. ‘Now come have breakfast, or I’ll fall asleep again, and you’ll have to walk to the hospital.’ 

‘Well, my knees aren’t up for that now,’ Jim sighed, placing the glasses around his neck, and followed his friend into the kitchen. While pouring himself coffee, he asked: ‘So, do you know this professor they’ve called in for a second opinion?’ McCoy shook his head and took a sip from his cup before answering. 

‘I have no idea who it is. It must be a new position – there wasn’t a professor chair in Vulcan medicine when I taught at the Academy.’ He shrugged and added jokingly: ‘If there had been, I would probably have had it, and that’s not even my primary field.’ 

‘Was it really that bad back then?’ Jim asked while getting some toast. 

‘Xenomedicine wasn’t taught properly in the Academy when I was a student – none of us were likely to end up on the _Intrepid_ , so Vulcan medicine wasn’t relevant. Must admit that my first goes were completely trial-and-error.’ He made a face at remembering. ‘Like that time I gave Spock anetrizine – never thought it wouldn’t be compatible with his physiology.’ He shrugged at the thought of the incident, which Jim could not quite recall; it must have been very early during the first five-year mission. ‘Then when we were stationed at the Academy, things had started happening, especially as more Vulcans had started joining the Fleet. Lucky, of course, but at that point, I had a pretty good grasp of it all.’ Then he seemed to continue his contemplation in silence, which the other man was rather grateful for, as even if it was not actually early, he still felt rather sleepy. 

It was later than usual when they got to the hospital, and in the corridor they encountered Doctor Takka. After they had said good morning, McCoy asked: 

‘How is Captain Spock?’ 

‘Considerably better,’ she told them as her antennae moved forward pleasantly. ‘He has even had breakfast.’ 

‘That _is_ encouraging,’ he exclaimed, smiling more than he had for quite come time. 

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Jim said and battled the impulse to yank Bones’ arm in order for him to continue to Spock’s room. Takka must have noticed his impatience, because she nodded at them, her antennae bending politely, and let them continue. 

When they entered, Spock was looking out of the window, the volume of Vulcan poetry clasped in his hand. For a moment, their presence seemed undetected, but then he turned his head and smiled weakly. 

‘Good morning, _t’hy’la_. Doctor.’ 

‘Morning,’ Jim answered, coming to his side and pecking him on the cheek. Especially up this close he noticed a new spark of light in his eyes, and his paleness turning less overbearing. ‘Slept well?’ 

‘I did,’ he answered pleasantly, while brushing against the other man’s hand. _I dreamt of you._ Jim could not resist lifting his brows quizzically, and then felt concepts flooding his mind. _Home, closeness, undisturbed guiltless laziness, a safe embrace, thoughts around my own..._ Spock drew away his hand, and Jim nodded minimally in acknowledgement. 

‘They told us you’d had breakfast,’ he said, not wanting McCoy to notice their telepathic exchange. 

‘Yes, or all of the tea and the rather bland _plomeek_ soup I could stand,’ Spock answered. ‘I must say that their replicators are not very well programmed.’ 

‘They’re still not giving you solid food, then?’ McCoy asked. 

‘No. Their judgement is that my body would not respond well to it yet.’ 

‘I guess they’re right, but still,’ the old doctor sighed, refraining from another comment on the Vulcan’s weight, even if he seemed as thin as before that dramatic night. As Jim covered Spock’s hand with his, McCoy asked: ‘Has that specialist been yet?’ 

‘No, not yet,’ Spock answered and handed the book in his lap to Jim, who placed it on the bedside table, just by the chain with his ring on it. 

‘Have you been reading?’ he asked, his fingers lingering on the cover of the book. There was a nod for an answer. 

‘I still find _Vanity Fair_ slightly too heavy.’ 

‘Do you mean the volume or the style?’ he said with a smile, and Spock would have rolled his eyes at him, if it were not such a human gesture. He had sunk a little lower into the bed, and the small smile he offered him was tired but comfortable. ‘How are you?’ his bondmate asked affectionately, squeezing his hand. 

‘Better,’ he answered. ‘Steadily better.’ 

Suddenly the door was opened and someone exclaimed: 

‘Captain Spock!’ Jim turned around, certain he had heard that voice before, and had not had time to register who the elderly African man in Starfleet red and medical green who stood in the door-way was before his eyes grew and sounding even more astonished said: ‘Captain _Kirk_?’ McCoy rose to his feet, laughing heartily, and rushed over to the man. 

‘Benjamin M’Benga – I should’ve known!’ he said, vigorously shaking his hand. The newcomer’s face split into a smile, looking genuinely surprised and pleased. 

‘What are you doing here, Doctor?’ he asked. 

‘Oh, just loitering – for old times’ sake,’ Bones answered with a shrug. He let go of his hand, and M’Benga turned to the others. 

‘Captains,’ he said as a greeting, and Jim got to his feet. 

‘Nice to see you again, Benjamin,’ he said, shaking his hand. He had not used M’Benga’s first name when the man had served on the _Enterprise_ as a junior doctor all those years ago, but somehow it felt right in the suddenly casual atmosphere. Then the doctor turned to his patient, who raised his hand in a Vulcan salute and said: 

‘ _Dif-tor heh smusma_.’ 

‘ _Sochya eh dif_ ,’ M’Benga answered, returning the salute. Then he looked from the Vulcan to the captain and back again. ‘I am sorry,’ he said at last, ‘but I was under the impression…’ McCoy interrupted him. 

‘Ben, those two have been married for almost thirty years, so stop fretting.’ At that point, Jim realised that he had not met M’Benga since the end of his first command, when Spock had resigned from the Fleet in order to undergo _Kohlinar_ and Jim had accepted a promotion to admiral just because he thought he would never see the Vulcan again. Still, Spock’s return to Starfleet had been mentioned in the press after the V’Ger incident, and after that they had both made the news several times. Bones was the one to voice this. ‘Don’t you read the newsfeed at all?’ M’Benga chuckled. 

‘I was stationed ten years on a small Vulcan research institute where almost no news came through, and then I was assigned to a deep space mission for five years and then another four,’ he explained. ‘I’ve heard rumours, but most of them sounded completely ridiculous.’ Then he bit his lip and looked at the PADD he had been holding under his arm. ‘Until I had a look at your file this morning and realised that you actually did die in 2285.’ 

‘That is correct,’ Spock said levelly, straightening up a little as if in an attempt to seem less weak. 

‘Hm, strange – quite remarkable,’ he muttered, and then concluded, still looking at his PADD: ‘It would be better if we had your whole medical history, of course, but what we have isn’t relevant anymore, if I’ve understood it correctly.’ He looked quizzically at McCoy and asked, as he opened his bag to collect his equipment: ‘Complete cellular regeneration?’ 

‘Yes,’ Bones said. ‘It’s never happened before, as far as we know – then again, scientists tend not to play around with protomatter. Would you like us to get out, by the way?’ M’Benga looked to Spock for his opinion. 

‘If it is acceptable, I would wish Jim to be present. Doctor McCoy is free to do as he will.’ The doctor waved his hand and said: 

‘Stay. I’m afraid you’ll have to move, though, Captain.’ 

‘Of course,’ Jim said, pressed Spock’s hand before letting go of it and stepped back to stand with McCoy by the wall. As M’Benga got to work, he felt rather remarkably happy. There was something familiar about this, even if the situation in general was alien. If he could not leave Spock under McCoy’s care, then M’Benga’s was the next best thing. Perhaps the sight of a Starfleet uniform was all he needed to calm down. 

‘You were admitted early on the twenty-fourth, isn’t that right?’ Spock nodded. ‘It was a good thing they took you into surgery at once. Most probably saved your life.’ 

‘But there was some tissue damage?’ 

‘Yes, but far less extensive than it could have been, I’d say, by going on your file,’ M’Benga said. ‘Can’t say more without an examination. In these cases, it’s usually, well, like taking two steps forward and then one back, if you’d bear with the idiom. And from what I’ve read, that’s very true of these past few days.’ 

‘If you are referring to the incident three nights ago, it seems much like that.’ 

‘Well, you’re doing remarkably well after it,’ the doctor said with a non-committal smile as he found a pair of gloves. ‘It’s good to see your stubbornness is intact. Now, I need to remove your shirt.’ He did so, and Spock lifted himself onto an elbow to help, even if the effort seemed great. When he was undressed, M’Benga hazarded touching some of the still-present bruises on his arms, which made him flinch slightly. ‘Hypos?’ he asked, glancing at McCoy, who nodded. 

‘They’re giving them in his legs now.’ M’Benga asked wordless permission, at which Spock nodded, and he removed the blanket. After looking over his legs, he took a foot into his hands and surveyed it. Jim thought he could see what looked like bruises on his ankles. 

‘They’re not turning you often enough,’ M’Benga concluded. ‘I’m guessing they’re misjudging the effect of the gravitation - you’re developing bedsores, even if these are quite superficial. Let me see if there are any more.’ The patient complied and let himself be turned, but the search proved fruitless. M’Benga turned him back onto his back and returned the blankets before picking up a scanner and placing it over his heart. 

‘Yes, there are some indications of heart failure, but with the right medicines, it can be controlled. There’s not much to do about it apart from medication – if it gets worse, additional surgery could be considered, but when it’s this mild, there’s no reason to go that far. Now, if you could take deep breaths…’ he said, moving the scanner higher up onto his chest. After a while he put it away and set about feeling the glands in his throat and palpating his abdomen. Then he turned to his instruments and said while calibrating a cerebral scanner: 

‘So you were unable to go into the healing trance.’ 

‘Yes, quite unable,’ Spock answered. He did not look very comfortable where he lay undressed and scrutinized, but his voice was well controlled and he subjected himself to the brain scan wordlessly. When M’Benga finally finished it, he seemed to think it through and asked: 

‘Are any of your telepathic abilities impaired apart from that? Does your perception at casual contact seem more distant, for example?’ 

‘No, there are no other differences,’ Spock answered. ‘My telepathy took some time to return after surgery, but since then it has seemed unchanged in other respects.’ The doctor nodded. 

‘I think the conclusion the neurologist team came to is very plausible. With increasing age, the ability to go into the healing trance is the first telepathic ability to be affected. If there was another reason, say a tumour, other abilities would be impaired as well, and the scan is completely clear.’ 

‘Is there anything you can do about it?’ Jim asked. 

‘Synaptizine sometimes helps, but it has to be given in such large doses it usually damages other parts of the nervous system,’ M’Benga answered him and then turned back to Spock. ‘And there’s no guarantee it’d work for you. It would be an unnecessary risk, as you’re recovering well on your own.’ He covered him up with the discarded pyjama shirt and then inquired: ‘How is your appetite?’ 

‘Not very good,’ he admitted, ‘even if I managed to have breakfast today. The thought of solid food is nauseating.’ 

‘Since you were admitted?’ 

‘Since before that – some three days previously,’ Spock told him, steepling his fingers almost unconsciously. ‘My appetite tends to be slightly versatile.’ 

‘You’ve lost considerable weight over this one week,’ the doctor observed, glancing at his PADD, presumably studying a graph over his weight. 

‘Doctor McCoy, as well as the other physicians, has pointed that out to me.’ He nodded, looking somewhat amused, as if his old superior’s meddlesomeness did not surprise him. 

‘I’ll suggest nasogastric intubation for a day or two to counteract it,’ he then said, making a note of it. ‘I’ll also suggest replacing the lectrazine with a small dose of peridaxon – the lectrazine might be affecting your appetite.’ Then M’Benga put down his stylus and asked: ‘Are you fully retired, Captain Spock?’ 

‘The past few years I have been involved in several projects for the Academy, and have recently done some teaching.’ 

‘How much time does that take?’ 

‘An average of eight hours a week, excluding preparation.’ 

‘I see,’ M’Benga said and seemed to consider it. ‘As soon as you are discharged, give in your notice.’ One of Spock’s eyebrows went up in his forehead and he looked like he was about to protest. ‘However undaunting you might find it, you are still unfit for work. Besides, stress might be a contributing factor to your heart attack.’ 

‘Very well,’ he said with a sigh which Jim thought he was the only person to notice. The doctor went back to the PADD and continued: 

‘The good news in all this is that there are no indications of any infections – no fever and nothing showing up on the more recent tests. Hospitals are among the worst places for infections, and your immune system is still compromised. When you’re discharged, you will have to stay away from crowds, public transport, small children – catching something would make your recovery much longer, and considering your hybrid physiology, we’re not certain how you’d react on even a simple infection.’ At that he turned his PADD to stand-by and said: ‘I’ll have them run some more blood-work, just to be on the safe side, and tell them my recommendations. I’m surprised at how well you are, considering what has happened to you.’ For a moment, Jim thought that Spock was _not_ well, and was struck by the irony that in this context, “well” could mean that someone seemed in no immediate danger of dying. Then he considered it a little more and realised that considering how Spock had been three days ago, he was almost well. M’Benga called Takka and talked to her quietly by the bed for a few minutes, and then her antennae lowered in assent. They called a nurse and asked Jim and McCoy to leave for a few minutes. As they waited outside, Jim felt grateful that M’Benga had told Spock to resign from position, however unofficial it was. Partly, it was from worry for Spock’s health; he agreed that his work might do more harm than good. Partly, it was from complete selfishness; it was good to know that he would have Spock’s undivided attention, even if he knew that that was an altogether ridiculous feeling, as they had always had their duty coexisting with their love. 

After not long, the door opened again and the nurse and the two doctors came into the corridor. M’Benga had his PADD under his arm and his bag in his hand and was obviously about to leave. 

‘It was a pleasure to meet you again, Captain,’ he said and extended a hand, which Jim took. 

‘The same,’ he said as they shook hands. Then he added, more softly: ‘Thank you.’ M’Benga nodded, seeming to understand what he meant. 

‘I wish you well – and I don’t think you have much to worry about.’ With a final smile he turned to McCoy, who asked: 

‘Are you heading back to the Academy at once, or can I tempt you to some of the canteen’s rather disgusting replicated coffee?’ 

‘For old times’ sake,’ he said. 

‘See you in a bit,’ Bones said to Jim, pressing his arm briefly before he and his former colleague left. His smile still lingering, the old captain reentered the room. 

‘Are they done with stealing your blood?’ he asked Spock, who was lying half on his side now. 

‘Indeed, and inserting even more tubes into me,’ he said and raised his eyebrows in an exasperated manner as he gestured to a new, very thin tube leading from his nose as Jim came closer. He tried not to think of the fact that it went all the way down into his gut. 

‘Does it hurt?’ There was a shake of the head. 

‘The insertion was uncomfortable, but I cannot feel it now,’ he admitted. Jim sat down again and took his hand between his. 

‘M’Benga turning up like that was a bit of a surprise,’ he commented. 

‘Certainly. It was rather comforting, in fact.’ 

‘McCoy looked like he was going to murder your doctors when he mentioned the bedsores,’ Jim said, smiling morosely. 

‘They were easily mended at this point, and I am certain that doctor M’Benga’s advice to doctor Takka and her colleagues will be more fruitful than if doctor McCoy commits homicide,’ Spock answered, and when his bondmate laughed, a light lit in his eyes. He fell silent, awe of that gaze interrupting him. Suddenly he was acutely reminded of how precious Spock was to him, and seeing him like this, even when he was better than before, was charring. It had been hard not to notice how prominent his ribs and sallow his skin had been when M’Benga had undressed him, and the hand he was clasping now seemed almost emaciated. 

He thought of the conversation he had eavesdropped on yesterday, and Spock’s words came back to him. _I do not wish to be surprised by that moment, doctor, whether it comes within the next few days or in several years._ That old fear gripped him, and some pessimistic part of him told him that there was no guarantee that his bondmate would not die within a week or a month or a year. He had no way of knowing… Then he took command of his own thoughts and put those thoughts aside. Still, one worry remained. 

‘Listen, Spock…’ He hated to bring it up, but he knew that he would regret not asking if he was not given the opportunity again. The anticipation made his speech disjointed. ‘We should talk about… well, perhaps we should – hypothetically – discuss the worst-case scenario.’ Spock looked at him, his eyes holding a mixture of love and worry. 

‘I assume you are enquiring about my funeral preferences.’ He would have laughed at the sentence, but could not find it in him. Instead he just nodded. 

‘Last time was a bit hap-hazard, so…’ Spock’s hand tightened around his. 

‘Bring me to Vulcan,’ he said at last. 

‘To Seleya?’ 

‘If possible.’ 

‘Bones doesn’t… think it’d work again,’ he admitted, feeling a stab of anger against the doctor’s persistence, even if he had not pondered the issue properly after their argument. 

‘He might well be right,’ Spock said; his voice was extraordinarily even, considering the topic. ‘But if I have to…’ He did not speak it, only spread his fingers across the blankets as they would be for a _katra_ -transferring meld. ‘…you will be the one I would choose.’ Jim nodded; he knew that was as much an assurance as an apology for having picked someone else. ‘Anyhow, if you do not go to Mount Seleya, you will surely lose your sanity permanently.’ He knew that even if he did, there was no guarantee he would not go mad, remembering the state the experience had left Bones in, where only large doses of lexorin kept him from getting symptoms which bordered on psychotic. The man tended not to mention it or pretend it even happened, which made the recollection of the fact that he had brought it up in such blunt terms during the argument several days ago particularly marring. 

‘What if it doesn’t work?’ Jim asked. 

‘Then you must extract my _katra_ from your mind,’ Spock answered evenly. 

‘What if I don’t want to?’ It was a childish remark, but the thought of permanently losing Spock was far too much for him to answer with reason. Spock turned his head fully towards him, leaned it against the pillow and smiled. 

‘I am sorry, _t’hy’la_ , but it is impossible to co-exist in such a way. Our minds are very compatible, but I cannot function in a human brain, which is already in use, and neither can you. The torment would kill you or drive you insane – or indeed both.’ For a moment, Jim had a sickening vision of himself preparing to commit suicide while apologizing to Spock out loud over and over again. _No, that is not worth it – it would kill him as well._ Still, the thought of removing Spock’s life essence from the safety of his own mind to let it dwindle in the open air was excruciating.

‘What of… burial? Should we do it the Vulcan way?’ Jim did not care to think of Spock on a far-off planet, trapped in a shallow grave in the desert. Once when they had been trekking on Vulcan many years ago, they had come across a grave which had been upturned by the winds. He shuddered at the memory of the corpse’s face, which, despite that the eyes, the lips and most of the nose was gone, still bore individual features on its leathery skin. 

‘Would it help you to have my grave close?’ 

‘I…’ He stopped and thought. ‘I don’t know.’ He tried to remember if he had wished to have a proper grave to go to and tend last time. In a way, the entire Genesis planet had been his grave or a marker over him. Its destruction shortly before the _fal-tor-pan_ had felt symbolic indeed. His thoughts must have been obvious through the bond, because Spock let go of his hand and placed two fingers on the back of it instead.

‘Jim, you never told me,’ he said silently, as if the subject were forbidden. ‘What was my funeral like?’ Jim laughed at the question, but the laugh turned into a sob. Spock’s hand came to cover his fully. 

‘It was… short. We didn’t really follow any rituals… I spoke. Scotty played the bagpipe. That was all.’ A small smile bloomed on the Vulcan’s lips. 

‘That… appeals to me. Some kind of service on Earth would be appropriate, wherever I am buried. In such a case, I would want you to speak, should you be able to bear it. Perhaps Doctor McCoy would be good enough to also…’ The last word disappeared as his breath caught and he started coughing, fighting for breath. Jim reached to grab his shoulder, in order to steady him, and the fit passed soon enough. When it did, there were tears in Jim’s eyes. 

‘Oh, Spock, I couldn’t bear to lose you again,’ he whispered. 

‘ _I_ have no intention of dying, _t’hy’la_ ,’ Spock told him and made a beckoning gesture. The human got up and sat down again on the bed, reclining his large frame beside his bondmate’s fragile form. His head came to rest in the crook of Jim’s neck, his arm around his waist. They stayed in the embrace for a long time, letting their minds meet through the connection. Jim idly stroked the tip of an ear, feeling complete and desperately afraid to lose that state. ‘It is a worst-case scenario, as you said, and although not impossible by any means, it is not the most probable,’ Spock murmured, and Jim kissed his forehead in reply. The Vulcan shifted his head slightly, licked his lips and then said slowly: ‘I always feel I say it far too seldom, and it is still… a strange thing to voice, although I know that you are certain of the sincerity of it…’ 

‘Of what?’ 

‘I love you, Jim. I love you, very much. I should say it all the time, but in that respect, I am still Vulcan – I find it hard to say such things. But you must remember, _t’hy’la_ , my… beloved, that I truly love you.’ 

The use of an English endearment seemed foreign to his voice but heartfelt, and Jim felt tears in his eyes again, at Spock’s attempt not to hide his love in the veils of language. 

‘I love you back, darling,’ he said and held him closer. ‘Love you back.’


	10. Chapter 10

Late that evening, Jim was balancing a glass on his sternum, watching the liquor in it shift with his breath. He was lying on the sofa, head to foot with Bones, who was holding his glass with both hands, as if it would try to get away from him. The bottle was on the floor, and had almost been emptied over the past couple of hours. They had started drinking after having called the hospital after dinner, when they had been informed that Spock was stable. Jim did not know whether it was a celebration or an attempt at comfort. 

‘Still can’t get over that M’Benga’s still around,’ McCoy muttered, eyes in the ceiling. ‘I’m damned jealous.’ 

‘He’s much younger than we are,’ Jim answered lazily. 

‘True. I’ve never been happier to see him, I think.’ 

‘Mm. It was a long time ago we were that many of the original crew in one room,’ he pointed out, finding his voice rather slurred. 

‘When Uhura and Scotty came to visit the two of you must be last time, right? How long since was that? Five years? Six?’ 

‘Six point four,’ Jim said and saw the other man cocking an eyebrow. ‘I mentioned it to Spock day before my birthday – he said it was six point four years ago.’ 

‘I can’t see how he does it,’ Bones answered, raising his head to sip his drink. ‘Drives me insane, all those bloody decimals.’

‘Saying “six years” for him would be like saying “somewhere under a decade” – he just… thinks in a different way,’ Jim explained and got a snort in return. They were silent for a while, until McCoy asked: 

‘Why hadn’t you called Peter? That put me in a damned fix.’ 

‘I didn’t feel like explaining it all,’ Jim sighed, raising a hand to steady his glass, as he was certain that he would spill it soon.   
His nephew had called just before dinner and been worried; he had seemed convinced that something had befallen his uncle; Jim had heard him tell McCoy that he had been trying to get hold of him for the past two days without result. After assuring him Bones had made Jim come to talk to him. Even now the image of Peter’s face, changed by worry, surprise and anger, came back to him as if to remind him of his neglect. 

‘You don’t not tell your nephew your husband’s been in the hospital for a week,’ Bones said, the alcohol making him use double negatives. ‘He expected me to tell him that _you_ were in hospital, for goodness’ sake.’ 

‘Bones, lay it off,’ he muttered. ‘Is it that weird I don’t like _talking_ about it?’ 

‘The problem is you’re assuming that everyone knows, because _you_ do,’ McCoy said. ‘It’s not in the headlines on the newsfeed, exactly.’ Then he must have seen Jim’s face, as he added: ‘I know it feels like it should be.’ 

‘It’s not like anything more important could be happening,’ he said jokingly, but when he heard himself say it it sounded like he meant it. 

‘I know,’ Bones said, suddenly going morose. _Here it comes,_ Jim thought. ‘When Natira…’ he broke off and shrugged, turning to another, but related subject. ‘I never really understood why she chose me, you know. Girls kept falling for you –or for Spock – but she… I don’t mean… well, let’s say I was past my prime. With Jocelyn, I was young and charming and a proper humbug, but Nat, she liked me anyway, warts and all. Who else would willingly marry a dying man, anyway? And she gave up so much after that. That priestess business – it was so important to her, and still when I retired…’ He sighed. ‘She was gorgeous – and she had the funniest toes.’

‘You’ve had enough,’ Jim pointed out, leaning out of the sofa and refilled his own glass. Despite what he had said, he poured McCoy another drink when he held up his glass. They lay in silence, and he thought of space and cultures he had seen. Some of them had only left superficial memories, while others had impressed or scared him. ‘I’d like to travel the stars again,’ he said at last. 

‘Too old,’ his friend muttered, as if he were about to fall asleep. 

‘Should I take Spock to Vulcan after this is over, Bones?’ he asked, and McCoy seemed to wake up, sitting up straight. 

‘Are you out of your mind?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why should you do that?’ 

‘It’s warmer. There are more Vulcan doctors around. And I think he misses it sometimes.’ The other man rolled his eyes. 

‘You don’t take someone in his state on a week-long interstellar journey, Jim,’ he pointed out. ‘Space travel takes its toll, you know, and he’s weak as it is. Not to mention how many infections get trapped in those cruisers. And are you really sure he misses _Vulcan_? Isn’t he just nostalgic about what he remembers from when he was a kid?’ 

‘His childhood was horrible,’ Jim said. 

‘Yeah, but you can still get a romanticised view of the place you grew up in,’ Bones pointed out. 

‘Perhaps,’ he said, shrugging non-commitally. ‘He hasn’t been back since Amanda died, so…’ The other man nodded. 

‘Besides, what should I do if the two of you go off?’ he added. Jim smiled but looked away, not knowing quite what to answer. 

‘Are you planning to lie on my sofa and drink all night?’ he asked to relieve the tension. 

‘ _Your_ sofa? It’s my sofa, thank you very much.’ 

‘Well, I’m sleeping in it, so it’s mine by association,’ he pointed out. ‘Besides, I want to go to sleep, and if you stay there I’ll probably roll over and crush your legs or something.’ McCoy kicked him good-naturedly but extracted himself from the sofa. 

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I feel like keeping my legs. G’night.’ 

‘Night,’ Jim answered and got up slowly. He contemplated ignoring the sheets, but decided not to. As he got into bed, he knew he was going to regret it. ‘Getting too old for this,’ he told himself, but reminded himself that he had thought the same thing twenty years ago. Despite the fatigue and the alcohol, it took him another hour to fall asleep, lying awake to ponder and worry. 

***

Spock’s sleeping face seemed to hold the sheen of a dream under the skin. 

‘Don’t wake him,’ McCoy said as Jim reached out to touch him. 

‘They said they’d given him a sedative – he won’t wake up on that, will he?’ he answered. It turned out less pleasant than he had planned, and he immediately regretted it. Still something made it feel impossible to be apologise, probably McCoy’s initial tone. He only snorted and went to stand at the opposite wall, obviously annoyed at Jim.

Placing his hand over Spock’s, Jim felt him under the veil of the sedative. He had been disappointed that his bondmate was still asleep, sedated after a sleepless night, as he desperately needed his company. He would not speak to Bones about it, and it would have been near impossible anyway, considering the old doctor’s bad mood and both their hangovers. Assuming that Spock would be awake when he arrived, he had planned to silently tell him through the bond, as he did not want to speak of it out loud. Had everything been normal, he would have woken at Spock’s side and let himself be held until the turmoil passed. 

He had dreamt of Tarsus IV. It was as if the recent emotional turmoil had been waiting to manifest itself in that form, and the weariness and alcohol of the previous night had pushed him over the edge. Suddenly he had found himself trapped within the mind of that bewildered thirteen-year old watching the bodies, stacked with as much dignity as time allowed. _Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony._ They died, so that others would live. He was screaming and fighting against the grip holding him back. His foot slipped in the blood on the ground and he fell, bringing the guard who grabbed him down over him. All the time he knew that the blood belonged to Thomas, the boy who had grabbed hold of his hand as they were divided into groups for execution. Even if he did not see it in the dream, the boy’s mutilated face loomed in front of his sight. On the history tapes, they said that the victims of Tarsus IV were killed painlessly, but Jim did not believe it. Firstly, he did not believe that there was such a thing as murder without pain. Secondly, he had heard men and women – even children, younger than he was – screaming around him, and he had seen what they had done to Thomas’ face. The sight of all those bodies had imprinted themselves on his retina, turning him into a roll of old photographic film. 

He had spent so much time trying not to remember. Even just after it had happened, when he had been shipped to his mother, who had gone with Sam to visit relatives, he had not told her of it. The look of guilt in her eyes ( _he’s thirteen – he’s capable of taking care of himself for a few weeks - we’ll ask Mrs Cleaver next-door to check on him now and then - what could possibly happen?_ ) was too much to bear, so it was never mentioned. It was the first secret he had told Spock, and Spock was the first to hear him speak of it properly. He had not borne to describe all of it, but years later in a meld he had shown him the memories. Jim had been certain that if Kodos’ death would not erase the memories, then sharing it would. Still the recollections came back to him every time something disturbed him deep enough. He had not yet come to terms with that; he had thought that 57 years would be enough to exorcise such a thing. Throughout his teens and during his further education, he had worked hard to show that he was not traumatised by it. That stubbornness had driven him far, and it may have been a contributing factor to getting him his command. Despite that the memories would not let go. If only Spock could wake up, he would be able to show him and the weight would lighten, but he could not send those images through the bond when he was unprepared, for fear of how they would manifest themselves in his mind. 

Jim sighed and leaned back, keeping his hold around the hand. He would not be very good company today – perhaps it was preferable that Spock was asleep, so he did not have to endure his low spirits. The dream had disturbed him badly, and McCoy’s bad mood had affected him as well. The old doctor had seemed closed within himself all day, as if he was working through something, but outwards, it turned into annoyance. Jim did not know what to do with it, even if he felt that he was far too preoccupied to deal with anyone else’s problems. Upon thinking that, he corrected himself. As he looked at Spock’s tranquil face, he knew it not to be quite true. 

At that he heard someone stir, and looked up. McCoy was on his feet, watching Spock so hard that it seemed that his gaze went through him into Jim. The other man was just about to say his name and ask him if he was well when he turned and left far too quickly, without offering an explanation. Jim looked after him and then turned back to kiss Spock on the brow. 

‘I’ll be back soon,’ he whispered and hurried after. 

He found him at the end of the corridor, facing into a corner and pressing a hand against one side of his face. 

‘Bones – are you okay?’ he asked, stopping at a polite distance. 

‘Just give me a moment,’ McCoy said, his breathing curiously laboured. He closed his eyes hard, concentrating, and his breath came more naturally. Even when he moved the hand from his face to the wall, as if to steady himself, his features were still strained. When he spoke, his voice was slow and slightly croaked. ‘You know, you harden yourself so much,’ he said, facing the wall. ‘You reduce people to readings and heart-beats and electric charges. You can’t afford to look at the life inside them. It’ll come too close.’ He swallowed. ‘I made myself so strong – that’s why I was such a damned good doctor. But now… I’ve really gotten old. I’ve spent so much time managing – I’ve never cried over a patient, not since dad… and, well, Natira. Just look at me. I… _saw_ it. His _katra_ … it seemed to call me...’ Now he looked over his shoulder at Jim. ‘I know you think it’d be so much better if we were still zooming through the sky, but I’m not so sure. It’s… wrong. You know all those cadets who got cold feet – the ones we talked out of leaving the service? By God, Jim, we were wrong – they knew what they were talking about. They _noticed_ it was wrong, but we were far too in love with our drug to see it. That’s what space is to us. We should never have gone out there. We’re being punished for it now.’ He jerked his head back towards Spock’s room. ‘This is Nature laughing at us. We should just stay on our own planet – look what’s happened. Natira and the way she died. Spock – his very existence. It’s all because of this stupid obsession – comfort for lonely men like you and me.’ 

Jim hesitated before answering; something was very wrong, as if someone other than Bones was speaking through him. He could guess what was happened, but decided not to ask outright, but only said: 

‘If space’s a drug, then Spock’s an addict as well. He’s not a victim.’ The thought of Spock as nothing but a symptom of someone else’s obsession was chilling. He was trying to forget that McCoy had just effectively claimed that the man should never have been born. 

‘It’s all wrong,’ he repeated, then something changed in his face and he leaned against the wall. ‘God, listen to me. Rambling on…’ He shifted and grabbed at his head. ‘I don’t think I took my lexorin this morning. Must have slipped my mind, with that damned hangover. It makes me a bit out of sorts...’ Jim marveled at the way he made it sound as if he had forgotten his vitamins rather than neuroleptics. 

‘Perhaps you should go home to get it,’ he suggested, trying to seem as unaffected as possible, while he feared that McCoy would suddenly snap and descend into complete incoherence. 

‘Yeah, probably – I’ll be rotten company,’ he said, his voice choked. 

‘I’ll drive you…’ 

‘You’re a menace in the traffic, Jim,’ he laughed, but it sounded forced. Jim considered the situation and imagined waiting for Spock to wake up on his own and get to sit closer than he would dare to do even if only McCoy were present. Then he shook himself mentally – Spock would be all right on his own, Bones would not – and said: 

‘Well, you shouldn’t drive when you’re like that. Come on.’ He grabbed him by the elbow and manoeuvered him towards the room. It seemed like even something in his stride was wrong and disjointed. Jim tried to ignore it, fearing where this would lead. Chapel had explained it to him at the time, and according to her the telepathic processes he had been subject to had shifted the enzyme levels in his brain. Despite that, Jim imagined it much as Bones had described it the evening before the crisis a few days ago – a hole in his mind where the _katra_ had been lodged, which had been left hollow and bleeding and when Spock’s mind had been extracted or rather ripped out. It conjured up visions of Vulcan’s barbaric past; the deed seemed primal in its violence and potency. Where Jim was defined by a presence, McCoy only had an absence. Now it occurred to him that perhaps he had been wrong all these years ago; perhaps there had not been a solution to the no-win scenario. He might have gotten Spock back, but the toll it had taken on McCoy would have been unimaginable at the time. As he got their coats and the car-keys and kissed his sleeping bondmate good-bye, he found himself recounting the trade he had made – Spock’s life in exchange for McCoy’s sanity, David’s future, Saavik’s peace of mind, the _Enterprise_ ’s existence. Suddenly it struck him that he had never considered that prize too high; he wondered what kind of man it made him. They got to the car and McCoy got in, turning his face away and continually clenching and unclenching one of his hands, and the thought presented itself, as if voiced by his conscience. _What if you were wrong? What if you gave what was not yours to give? That might be what you’re paying for now. Nature is coming to take back what you took from her._

 _No,_ Jim thought, hands tightening over the controls of the air-car, and as he answered that part of his mind, he thought he felt his reply echoed through the bond. 

_No, never,_ it seemed to say. _I will not be reclaimed._ He was not certain if he had imagined the communication, but he took it to heart, and convinced that whatever the repercussions of his actions, he would not let them be undone. 

Still the drive seemed to take impossibly long, and when he turned the engine off, McCoy’s pose looked more hunched than ever. 

‘You okay? Will you make it up?’ 

‘I’m fine,’ he croaked, his fist closing harder and staying that way. His step still seemed disturbed, but they went upstairs in silence without Jim offering to help him. Once inside, McCoy went into the bathroom at once and opened the medicine cabinet. He accidentally knocked down several objects into the sink, but he did not heed them and took out the jar he was looking for. Jim stayed a few meters from the doorway and saw him swallow a pill from the jar. At that, his resolve seemed to break, and he left the jar open on the edge of the sink, sitting down with his arms covering his head, as if to shield himself. The other man turned away, not bearing to see him in such a state. Instead Jim went into the living-room and was greeted by the cat, who jumped from the sofa and purred against his legs appreciatively. 

‘Hello,’ he said, reaching to pat her. ‘We won’t be here for long - hopefully.’ The cat did not seem to mind, but stroked her side against him until he picked her up. After some time, he heard footsteps and, turning around, saw McCoy enter. His stance seemed more relaxed, and something resembling a smile crept onto his face when he caught sight of him. ‘Feeling better?’ 

‘Yeah, getting there,’ he answered and picked the cat out of his arms. ‘Why hello, kitty. Are you hungry? Let’s get you some food…’ He disappeared into the kitchen; from the sound of it he seemed to be looking through the cupboards. At first he hesitated – it seemed like McCoy thought it would be easier to speak to the cat than to him – but then he followed and watched him fussing over his pet. When he at last had presented it with food, he looked up at Jim. ‘Hungry little beggar,’ Bones observed. The other man nodded and averted his eyes. ‘Jim, I’m all right.’ His tone of voice was somewhere between amused and exasperated. 

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ he snorted. When he raised his gaze again, McCoy was watching him earnestly. 

‘I’m as all right as I’ll ever be – that’s enough,’ he said, and something made Jim think he really meant it. His thoughts started turning towards what he had pondered on their way here, and it must have been noticeable what he was thinking, because McCoy stood up rather abruptly and said: ‘If you’re about to apologise, then don’t you dare.’ They stood in silence for a moment, until, as if accidentally, their eyes met. What Bones’ gaze said was clear enough to be a telepathic message. _It was worth it. Don’t ever imagine it wasn’t._

He looked away quickly, feeling awkward. When the other man went back to petting his cat, who was busy eating the tinned meat it had been served, Jim thought of his dream, which seemed more distant now. It was not quite gone – he still wanted to show it to Spock to fully get rid of the memory of it – but something had made it easier to bear. Suddenly he came to think of the past week and felt rather ashamed of himself. 

‘Look, Bones…’ He collected his thoughts and spoke. ‘I know I’ve been… daunting lately, and I’m not much fun when I just complain about your cooking and mope around. But I… appreciate that you’ve kept up with me. It’s just that… I don’t function without him. Everything just feels wrong. So… thanks.’ McCoy shrugged, looking embarrassed but rather touched. 

‘Sure – don’t mention it,’ he muttered as he stood up, but despite his best efforts, he could not hide a smile. At that he took the keys from him, as if to show that he had regained his control, and walked towards the door. Just as he was about to open it, he turned around and said: ‘We’re both pretty useless, aren’t we?’ 

Jim laughed. 

‘Completely.’ As he was handed his jacket, Bones smiled.

‘Let’s get back – Spock’s probably awake at this point.’ 

***

The sky was red above him and the sand burned his feet. He kept walking without heeding it and watched T’Kuht rise beyond the mountains in the distance. Vulcan was plunging into night, but still he could not remember what he was doing here. The desert must have called him – there was something he had to do, something he wanted to know. Soon the heat would turn into unbearable cold, and the Vulcan cloak he was wrapped in would do little to shield him. Grains of sand were lodging themselves between his toes and under his nails – they were even behind his ears and in his hair and eyebrows. A wind was coming up; he pulled up the hood, but it did not stop the noise. Something caught his foot and he tripped. As he looked back, he saw that it was a cloak, discarded in the sand… No, not discarded. He stumbled to his feet and the wind blew with new strength, disrupting the sands and revealing what it hid. He knew the face; still after all these years, even when it was darkened and dried by the sand and the wind. The sight made him want to turn away, but he was mesmerised by the corpse in front of him. His ears were still the same, and even if they had shrivelled and been drawn back, he recognised his lips. Why had he left him in the sand? _Why…?_

In Riverside, running down the street where their house was. Sam should be here, but he could not see him. Not even his mother was there. Desperately he ran into their house, looking through the rooms, but there was no one. _Alone…_

By the bedside with Spock’s hand between his. Its heat was already failing. Any minute now, they had told him. They could not say when it would happen, when the snap of the bond would be felt. He tried to speak – _it’ll be all right, Spock. It’ll all be fine_ – but the words would not come, as if he were choking… 

And suddenly he was looking at the stars, not from Earth, as so often, but from among them. He was on the observation deck on the _Enterprise_ , his lost lady; he heard the hum of the engines and the whisper of the pipes. There was someone beside him. 

_Spock?_ He was standing beside him, dressed in a white meditation robe, smiling at him, by no means younger than he was in reality, but certainly healthier. 

_Jim,_ he heard as a reply, spoken but also echoing inside him. It was a far too real experience. 

_I’m dreaming,_ he said or thought, knowing it sounded ridiculous even if he was certain about it. 

_So am I, I believe,_ Spock answered, looking out over the stars. Jim raised his hand and touched his arm. It was as if a spark ignited between them. This was not the stuff of dreams. 

_But you’re real – it makes no sense._ The Vulcan dipped his head, as if to hide his smile. 

_This seems to be one of few occurrences of a_ run-teretuhr, _a dreaming-together. Our minds have converged for longing for one another. This is our dream._ Jim reached for his face, and felt his mental presence instead of skin. 

_And we ended up on the Enterprise?_ he said, looking at the familiar yet distant bulkheads. 

_Do you remember when we were young? This place…_ The human smiled widely. 

_Yes, we’d meet here. Even before we were together – before I’d figured out what was going on._ He smiled at the memory, but it was blotted out by worries of the present. _I miss you awfully,_ he admitted. _Don’t know when I was away from you this long._

 _You would not want me to waste time to answer that,_ Spock said good-naturedly, holding up two fingers, which Jim answered. _I long for you,_ t’hy’la. 

_They have to give you back to me soon, Spock – they have to. I’ll go mad._ Even as he spoke, he felt Spock’s mind around his. 

_You must have patience. Make plans for my return. What did you tell me we would do – play chess and make love?_

_Yes, we’ll do that, when you’re strong enough,_ Jim answered. _And you can play your Vulcan lyre and I’ll read for you and it’ll be like this – like there’s only you and me._ Spock smiled, wider than he tended to do. 

_It will be a happy home-coming._ He heard the thought reverberate in his skull and within the shared dream, and when the observation deck of the _Enterprise_ melted away and he awoke, the echo stayed with him. 

***

‘You look very chipper,’ McCoy commented when Jim came into the kitchen that morning. 

‘Yeah,’ he said vaguely, still smiling. Then he admitted: ‘Had a good dream.’ 

‘Sounds like a nice change,’ the other man said as he handed him the coffee pot. 

‘What about you?’ 

‘I’m okay,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Better than yesterday.’ Jim acknowledged him with a nod, knowing it was not something to be discussed. McCoy had seemed slightly out of sorts all day, but had not acted out of the ordinary. Both he and Jim were both cheered by the fact that Spock was in a good mood, even if he had been very tired. They had still managed to play a game of chess while McCoy went to get coffee for them. 

On the way to the hospital, Jim noticed that the sun was out. He had not really noticed the weather recently, but it struck him that today was a beautiful day. Also, the thought at seeing Spock after the dream tonight made his heart jump with excitement. They found their way from the entrance to the xenomedics ward deep inside the bowels of the building without trouble; the ease they knew their way around was depressing, but he shook it off, unwilling to become melancholic. 

As they went down the corridor, Jim noticed that Spock’s room stood ajar. He stepped in, but stopped in his stride when he realised that the bed was empty. His brain processed the sight, taking in the crumpled sheets and thrown back blanket for a short moment which seemed to stretch into eternity, until the rising chill in his bones was stopped by the feel of the bond and a voice: 

‘Jim.’ Only then did he see the rest of the room: 

‘Good god, Spock!’ The Vulcan smiled at him and reached out his hand when Jim rushed to him. He was seated away from the bed in an armchair with a blanket over his legs. In his lap lay _Vanity Fair_ , the large book making his hands look thinner than they were. Jim reached him and was about to crouch at his side, but Spock grabbed his elbow and manoeuvered him to a chair close by. 

‘Please, _t’hy’la_ , spare your knees.’ Then meeting Jim’s marvelling gaze, he asked: ‘Are you surprised?’ 

‘Surprised?’ he repeated, laughing with relief. ‘It’s just so damned good to see you out of bed again.’ 

‘It is a relief,’ Spock answered and did not break eye-contact. A reminder of their dream passed between them, and Jim touched his cheek, then paused. 

‘No tubes,’ he observed. He trailed his finger over his cheek and around the ear. ‘How does it feel?’ 

‘Very… good,’ the Vulcan admitted, hesitating even now to use such a human word. ‘I will need the oxygen again, but at the moment I can manage with a tri-ox injection. As for the nasogastric tube, the doctors are of the opinion that is advantageous for me to eat for myself.’ Then he seemed to notice his bondmate’s inane smile and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Jim?’ At that the man moved and kissed him full on the lips. Spock said something into the kiss which might have been a protest, but the bond glowed between them and he kissed back. When he finally broke the kiss his lips sought his ear and he whispered: 

‘I’m so happy for you.’ Then, after planting a small kiss on his ear, he drew away. Spock smiled at him once again and then looked towards the door, his face pleasant but not overly emotional. 

‘Doctor McCoy, there is no reason to stay in the door-way. I am certain that you have seen myself and Jim exchange displays of affection before.’ McCoy snorted with an amused smile and came inside to sit down. 

‘Unfortunately, I have,’ he said. ‘How are you?’ 

‘Greatly improved, thank you,’ the patient answered. ‘I believe having been bed-ridden for this extent of time has put me in rather low spirits, but I find them to be better now.’ McCoy nodded approvingly. 

‘Is it the first time they let you up?’ 

‘It was first attempted yesterday afternoon after you had left, but I was too fatigued to manage more than ten minutes. Now, I have been sitting here for 30.7 minutes, and I am still finding it quite pleasant.’ 

‘And you’ve been reading,’ Jim noticed, indicating the book. 

‘Yes, although not all of that time,’ Spock explained. ‘I have attempted to enjoy the view, although it is in truth not very enjoyable, but seeing the sky is pleasing. I have also conversed two of the nurses, one of whom was what you would call a “hobby” physicist. The conversation was entertaining, if not stimulating.’ The two others laughed; Jim remembered seeing him encounter young enthusiastic cadets, and recalled the amused, slightly condescending look on his bondmate’s face. That made him want to kiss him again; indeed, he found that he wanted to touch him much more than usual, by putting a hand on his chest, brushing against his ear or touching his knee with his own. While the bed had an imposing air which made it hard to breach, the chair laid him open to familiar contact; he was no longer primarily the object of the examining hands of doctors, but seemed once again to be his to touch. Even as they all spoke together, sometimes Spock would look at Jim and the force of that gaze almost knocked the breath out of him. A few times, he touched his fingers in a fashion which bordered on teasing. All he could do was nudge him through the bond in an attempt to chastise him, which only made him smile at him again, and it started all over again. 

Some time after they had arrived, Spock’s breath was coming more laboured and he said, averting his eyes apologetically: 

‘I seem to be growing fatigued. Would you please call the nurse, Doctor McCoy?’ He did, and when the nurse came, he jerked his head towards the door while looking at Jim, who reluctantly followed. 

‘I don’t see why we have to leave,’ he admitted when the door was closed behind them. 

‘Two reasons,’ McCoy answered. ‘First, we’d be in the way and they’re trying to do their work. Second, it can be damned upsetting to see them move him. It’s easy to notice how weak he is when you do that.’ Jim shrugged, first thinking that he would not mind, but still he knew that Bones might be right. The comment made him feel slightly unsettled, so when the door opened and the nurses came outside he stopped one of them and asked: 

‘How is he?’ 

‘He’s fine,’ she said, sounding like she knew just what was going on in his head. ‘He even managed to walk a few steps on his own.’ When he heard that, his fear seemed to evaporate and nodding thank you to the nurse went inside. Spock was once again in bed, propped up and tucked in. Jim sat down on the bed-side, facing him. 

‘You walked?’ he said silently. Spock nodded. ‘You really _are_ getting better.’ 

‘Did you not believe it before?’ he asked, amused. Jim just shrugged and smiled; his bondmate knew full well that he had a hard time taking anyone’s word for something he himself was not certain of. In unison they sought each other’s hands; it might have been his imagination, but he thought the grip was stronger than before. 

McCoy came inside as well and took up one of his customary places, by the foot of the bed. 

‘You’re really shaping up,’ he commented. ‘And back on replicated soup, obviously.’ 

‘Yes, it seems so,’ Spock admitted. 

‘I’ll make you proper _plomeek_ when you come home,’ Jim promised, and he saw in the corner of his eye how McCoy pulled a face. Unlike the old captain, he had never really learned to like Vulcan cooking, and tended to complain about the blandness and the lack of alcohol. Spock gave his bondmate an amused look, which also contained no little part of gratitude. 

‘How is your cat, doctor?’ he asked good-naturedly. 

‘Fine – hungry. Cute.’ 

‘Such an enigmatic creature cannot possibly be called “cute”,’ Spock pointed out, still with amusement with his gaze. 

‘Only you think she’s enigmatic. Usually she seems a bit daft – all she does is eat and beg to be petted.’ 

‘Admirable occupations, if one is a cat. Do you get along with her, Jim?’

‘As long as she doesn’t sleep on me, she’s sweet,’ he answered. ‘You’ve got a better hand with her, though.’ Spock smiled vaguely but appreciatively, and then asked McCoy: 

‘Does Jim still insist on doing the cooking?’ 

‘I’m happy to let him – I run out of ideas after two days,’ the man admitted. At that, the reason to Spock’s intent questions struck Jim. Now, he sensed loneliness and something not quite reminiscent to jealousy but somewhat alike in him. It was a longing for some other place than this one room, which he had not left for over a week, as well as antipathy against any other routine than the one they tended to have and disquiet at not sharing in the other men’s company. Jim pressed his hand, because he felt something similar. His reluctance to leave Spock was not only due to not wanting to lose his company, but also because he did not want to hand him over to anyone else, least of all to loneliness. When he and Bones were not there, Spock must be completely on his own, if not some kindly nurse came to keep him company, but his bondmate neither thought that it would ease his solitude nor that he would appreciate it. While Jim had been grateful for Heloise’s presence on the night when they had almost lost him and he thought that her touch had on some level kept him alive, he knew that Spock would not appreciate the company of strangers when he was conscious and coherent. Even now, he felt frustration rising in the Vulcan, who knew his thoughts so well; not only did he loathe the fatigue and restlessness and his own loneliness, but also his own absence from the other two men. 

As he sat by Spock’s bedside and spoke with him and then during lunch in the hospital cafeteria together with Bones, Jim did not let the train of thought go, but expanded it in all directions. He wondered if he had spent this much time with McCoy since their retirement; mostly they met up once a week, as it was hard to rid yourself of someone’s presence when you had gotten used to them for so many years. That thought made him briefly wonder what would have happened if it had been McCoy instead of Spock who had fallen ill. Even if the scenarios were quite different, he thought the despair would be similar. Still, his own reality would not seem as ruptured as it was now. Not having slept in his own bed for over a week was rather depressing, but the few times he had been at home since Spock fell ill, the place had seemed almost haunted to him. It seemed unnatural when only he was present, and he had been terrified by the idea of returning to it if Spock died. Yet had the tables been reversed, he thought he would have sat at Bones’ bedside, as would Spock. Indeed, if it had been him, the two others would do the same thing, and not only to help with his old paranoia against being alone. 

He wondered when they had become so tightly knit together. Perhaps it had, without him realising it, been that way from the very beginning, even before he and Spock had become a couple, when Bones had been at his throat to do something about the tension with his first officer (‘if you do it, then do it properly, and for goodness’ sake don’t scare him off, because in that case I don’t know what’ll happen to this ship’). It might have been later; McCoy had been the only crewmember present at their bonding, and he had seemed prouder of their commitment even than Amanda. Early in their marriage, Spock had once commented that he seemed not only to have married Jim, but also McCoy’s bickering. Jim understood where he got the idea from; Bones had not let his often hidden tact stop him as often as before, and the doctor and the first officer’s verbal disagreements had seemed more violent and eloquent than ever before. Jim usually found them amusing, even if he thought McCoy was occasionally rather ruthless. Still, there had never been anything malicious about them at that point. After some pondering, Jim had drawn the conclusion that it was probably their way to display friendship. In the way human males defined friends, Spock had none; he had acquaintances and colleagues, and then there was Jim, who he called “friend” because that was the standard way to translate _t’hy’la_ into English, even if that was not its full meaning. Vulcans simply did not meet to chat over a glass of brandy, which seemed to puzzle McCoy as well as annoy him. When both of them lacked adequate set of social rules to use in their interaction, they simply took to bickering, which became a strange display of their mutual appreciation. They both seemed unable to make any kind of concessions in their notions of interaction; even now, Spock had not found another way to address McCoy than by his title and surname. Perhaps “Bones” was far too much Jim’s nickname for him, and resorting to first names was out of the question; McCoy disliked his first name intensely, and even Natira would never address him by it. 

When Jim thought about it, what must inevitably had brought them close, if nothing else, was the events surrounding the Genesis device. Anything else would be very surprising; defying death was nothing one did lightly. Now he was struck by the same realisation which he had had during that time. He had spent so much time thinking of Spock, that he had completely forgotten about Bones, and he realised that he was badly suited for the world without both of them. He wished he could verbalise some of these thoughts to the other man, but it seemed like those old ideas about masculinity McCoy used to derail against were still keeping both of them from speaking their minds, even if they had breached a few topics recently. As they had lunch in silence, he thought of bringing up the events of yesterday, but found no way to do it which was certain not to offend the man or make him averse to answering. Now he regretted belittling his suffering from the _katra_ , especially after yesterday’s events. Despite that it was remarkable that he did function under such circumstances; they were a stubborn bunch, all of them. _Still…_ Jim rubbed his eyes with an exasperated sigh, not understanding why it was a risk Bones could endure but one he would not let him take. _Chivalry or jealousy? Or perhaps both of us have a bit of each._

‘What are you thinking about?’ McCoy asked, probably noticing his friend’s hunched shoulders and creased forehead. 

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said quickly, straightening his back and continuing with his uninspired chicken sandwich. Spock was right that the replicators needed reprogramming. ‘How’s your lunch?’ 

‘I’d rather not think about it,’ Bones answered, poking his meatloaf. ‘I could probably do better myself.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ Jim replied, making the other man snort. 

‘Are you worried for Spock?’ he asked, suddenly serious again. 

‘I think he’s lonely. He seems so much better, but…’ 

‘Frustrated?’ There was a nod for an answer. ‘He’s not the kind of person who tolerates being turned into an invalid very well.’ McCoy smiled slightly. ‘Even logic can’t make him less proud.’ The other man chuckled, agreeing, before the speaker returned to being serious. ‘Try to instill patience in him, Jim. He might need it.’ Then, drawing in his chair, he said: ‘I promise we’ll get him home. And don’t let him get any other ideas.’ 

‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t,’ he said. In silence they finished their lunches. ‘Perhaps we should be getting back,’ he said, glancing at the chrono on the wall. McCoy made some vague gesture. ‘Hm?’ 

‘Go on your own for now,’ he suggested levelly. ‘Get some time for yourself.’ 

‘Bones, don’t be ridiculous,’ the other man said, surprised. The doctor sighed in an amused manner, as if recognising something he found endearing. 

‘Jim, I know you both pretty well – probably better than you realise.’ Jim got a feeling that the comment was a reference to what he had been pondering, but did not linger on it. ‘I see that you two are pining to get some time on your own – don’t let me get in the way.’ 

‘You’re not getting in the way of anything,’ he said truthfully. McCoy smiled gratefully, but jerked his head towards the exit. 

‘Come on, go. Doctor’s orders. You love-birds can coo over each other for half an hour or so, while I have a cup of coffee and brood over the incompetence of modern doctors. A bit like old days.’ A shadow passed over his cheerful face. ‘Besides, I need to figure out what to do with Natira’s things. I’ll catch up with you.’ Jim hesitated, but then gave in. 

‘All right,’ he said and got up. ‘You really aren’t getting in the way,’ he repeated, but got waved off with a patient smile. That was probably the most ostensive he would be able to be about what he had pondered, but despite that, Jim got the feeling that he and Bones understood one another rather well.


	11. Chapter 11

When Jim entered Spock’s room, his bondmate lay with his eyes closed and a hand resting on his chest as it rose and fell evenly with his breath. Still it was obvious that he was not asleep, and, ignoring the chair, Jim sat down on the bed. First he only sat still and watched his face, which seemed exceptionally peaceful. Then he leaned forward to kiss his cheek, avoiding the oxygen tube. 

‘All that talk about cats makes me think you’re quite a lot like one,’ he murmured before straightening up. When he did so, Spock had opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow. 

‘That is a rather insulting comment,’ he observed, affection in his gaze. 

‘It’s not. Everyone has an animal they’re most like. Yours is a cat.’ A small, almost mischievous smile crept onto his face as he first propped himself up on an elbow and then sat up in order to wrap an arm around Jim’s waist. 

‘I find that over the years, you have grown rather reminiscent to a _sehlat_.’ 

‘A _sehlat_?’ Jim repeated, scoffing. ‘ _That_ is insulting.’ 

‘Not at all – I was quite fond of my _sehlat_ ,’ Spock observed mockingly, and his bondmate snorted and embraced him. When they drew back slightly, still with their arms around each other, the Vulcan asked: ‘Did Doctor McCoy stay behind?’ The other man nodded. 

‘He wanted to sort his head out.’ 

‘He is well?’ 

‘I think so. He might be finding it all harder than he lets on,’ he said. ‘He thought I wanted to spend some time with you on my own as well.’ Spock smiled a little and looked down, his eye-lashes casting shadows over his thin cheeks, as if in agreement. Jim watched in amazement. ‘How come you manage that, even like this?’ 

‘Manage what, Jim?’ he asked. The human laughed self-consciously before elaborating. 

‘Looking so… gorgeous.’ To his surprise, Spock drew away and grew serious. 

‘I do not look “gorgeous”,’ he said, averting his eyes. ‘I am aware that my appearance is rather unappealing at present. In fact, I find that I am looking rather like my father.’ 

‘You don’t,’ Jim assured him as he took his hand. ‘For the record, I’ve never thought your father very attractive at all.’ When the Vulcan did not react on the joke, he pressed his hand and asked him: ‘Show me how you see yourself.’ Spock hesitated, then raised his free hand and found his meld-points. Their minds were drawn into one another, and Jim felt his thoughts laid bare for him. He was lead through the whirlpools of thoughts to one particular, quite recent memory, where Spock saw his own face in a mirror. Even if it was essentially the same as the one he had seen before the meld had blotted out his other senses, the wrinkles in it seemed deeper, the eyes duller and the pallor more obvious. It was as if some spark was lacking in it; it seemed worried and lonely, in a way Jim had not seen him look even now. Concentrating, he willed his own perception of that face through the connection, where Spock smiled at him or simply met his eyes, in order to evict the pitiable image he had shown him. When it reached him, the Vulcan stirred, and then removed his fingers, letting air in between them instead of thought. ‘Told you,’ Jim whispered, as Spock rested his head against his shoulder. His breath was slightly laboured. ‘Shouldn’t you lie down?’ 

‘It seems that the disadvantages are outweighing,’ he murmured, as if the meld had stolen his energy. Still, after some time he lay down, but not without taking both of Jim’s hands. They moved their hands in unison, going from a grip to palm-to-palm, to the first two fingers meeting, not breaking eye-contact. The bond seemed to sing between them, opening their minds to one another without tiring them. When Spock’s eyes shut, so did Jim’s, but the connection between them was unobstructed and served almost like a gaze. Thoughts floated out of one mind and into another, making them almost indistinguishable. When the Vulcan’s hands stopped moving and his bondmate felt him falling asleep, he made the fall of his arms soft and kissed him lightly. 

When the door opened and Bones entered, Jim was still sitting on the bedside, watching the sleeping man. To stop the newcomer from waking him, he turned and put a finger over his lips. McCoy came to his side. 

‘Asleep?’ He nodded, but did not look away from Spock. ‘Since when?’ 

‘Just a few minutes ago,’ Jim answered and stood up carefully, afraid that the shift of the mattress would wake him up. ‘Is he supposed to sleep this much?’ 

‘The more rest he gets, the better,’ McCoy said quietly. ‘By the way, Takka cornered me in the corridor.’ 

‘Did she want you out of the ward?’ 

‘For once not,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘She asked me to tell you that they want to talk to Spock and “his closest kin” – which I guess means us – tomorrow. One o’clock.’ 

‘Oh,’ Jim said, puzzled. ‘Why?’ 

‘To discuss how he’s doing, what treatments to give him – that kind of thing,’ Bones said with a shrug. ‘It’s an opportunity to get some clarity about what’s going on.’ The other man nodded. 

‘How did your thinking go?’ 

‘Fine,’ came the answer. ‘Still don’t know what to do with that stuff, though.’ He sighed. ‘It’s strange what a grip they’ve got on us.’ 

‘The dead?’ Jim asked, looking at him. McCoy shook his head. 

‘No. Loved ones.’ 

***

The next morning, Jim and McCoy arrived to the hospital a little later than usual. When they stepped into the room, Spock was sitting up with the novel he was reading in his lap. 

‘Did you sleep well?’ Jim asked, kissing his cheek before sitting down on a chair for decorum’s sake. 

‘Sufficiently so,’ Spock answered with a vague smile. ‘I found myself sleepless some of the night.’ When he was told this, Jim realised he knew that; once when he had woken up during the night, he had felt Spock’s presence, as if he were concentrating on the bond. 

‘Did they give you a sedative?’ he asked. 

‘No. I was not as uneasy as I have been some previous nights.’ 

‘Are you worried about talking to the doctor, Spock?’ McCoy asked. 

‘I am not “worried”, Doctor McCoy, rather, I am curious to hear their opinions. You are certainly reading too much into my sleeplessness,’ he answered levelly, but Jim thought he felt a flutter of anticipation. He pressed his hand a little harder to reassure him. The gesture was returned with gratitude. 

The morning passed quickly, and at quarter to one, the door opened and a few nurses, among them Mary, entered. One of them was pushing an empty wheel-chair. 

‘Doctor McGivers wanted to have the meeting in his office, so we need to get you ready,’ she explained. Spock made a conceding nod and pressed Jim’s hand, as if he knew even before Mary turned to him and McCoy and ask: ‘Could you wait outside for a little while, please?’ 

‘Sure, sweetheart,’ the old doctor said, tapping the other man on the shoulder and leaving. Smiling at his bondmate, Jim got up and followed him. As they waited, he felt anticipation to mirror the Vulcan’s rising within him. Even if he was fairly certain Spock was better than just a few days ago, there was no telling what the doctors would say.   
When the door opened, he went in first. One of the nurses was just arranging a blanket over Spock’s legs, where he sat dressed in a dressing-gown in the wheel chair: the rest of the hospital would be cold for him. 

‘Is that all right?’ the nurse asked, standing it. 

‘It is acceptable – thank you,’ Spock answered, and turned his attention from the nurse to Jim, who noticed he still had the oxygen tube. He straightened his back, while raising an eyebrow, asking in his eyes whether he looked like an invalid. _You look rather dramatic_ , he thought through the bond, which made Spock raise his other eyebrow sceptically and then relax his face into a half-smile. 

‘Let’s get going,’ Mary said, flicking the breaks and wheeling him out of the room. Once in the corridor, Jim took his place by his side. He noticed a tremor go through Spock from the temperature, and even if he knew it would do little to help, he placed his hand against his arm.   
They did not go a long way, but entered a room in an adjoining corridor. Doctor McGivers was looking through something on a PADD, but put down the stylus and stood when they came inside. 

‘Welcome, Captain Spock,’ he said with a nod, and then shook hands with the other two, saying their names. ‘Captain Kirk – Doctor McCoy. Have a seat.’ They followed his advice, as did Mary. Jim had pulled up a chair beside Spock, still with his hand resting on his arm, while McCoy sat beside him in turn. ‘Now, let’s see…’ McGivers murmured and looked at his PADD again. ‘So you’ve been here ten days now. How have you found it?’ His answer was slightly delayed. 

‘Adequate.’ Jim knew that the only reason Spock had picked that particular word was that he did not have anything in his vocabulary which was negative enough to describe the experience. 

‘I’ve gathered you’re not retired,’ McGivers said. 

‘Indeed. Now it seems like my idleness will have to be permanent - I have been advised by Doctor M’Benga to retire,’ Spock answered. 

‘Yes, I think he’s right. When you’re better, I’m sure you could take up something, but you have to think of your health first.’ He flicked through the files of the PADD and looked up again. ‘The last week has been quite the roller-coaster. Still, we’re surprised at how well your body has handled all of this, and as we’re discharging you…’ 

‘Wait a minute,’ Jim exclaimed. ‘ _Discharging_?’ 

‘Yes - tomorrow at noon,’ McGivers specified. 

Jim felt his mind reeling. Shock and joy made his head spin. _Finally. It’s finally ending._ For a moment he almost thought he would pass out from the sudden storm of emotions. It must have been tangible through the bond, because Spock turned slightly in the chair and covered his hand with his own. 

‘ _T’hy’la_ ,’ he said, as if steadying him with his voice. At that, he snapped back to life and turned to the doctor. 

‘Is he really well enough?’ he asked, pressing Spock’s arm. 

‘Both myself and my colleagues think he is,’ McGivers answered frankly. ‘Besides, we don’t think he would necessarily benefit more from being cared for in hospital. There’s a load of problems with it – risk for depression, all sorts of infections…’ He trailed off with a shrug and then turned to Spock again. ‘You’ll have to come here for check-ups, of course, but we’ll sort that out later. Once you’re discharged, you mustn’t overexert yourself – try going for walks, but take care. Rushing it will do more harm than good. You’ll have to take quite a lot of medication; primarily benjizidrine and metrazene, but small doses of lectrazine and quadroline as well - those are all heart medicine – and cervaline to counteract side-effects for them. We’re also going to prescribe you trioxin for your breathing and corophizine and vertazine to boost your immune system.’ He looked up from the list and said: ‘It might take some time, but you’ll make a full recovery.’ Jim heard a laugh echo within his head, and when he looked at Spock, he saw his eyes glowing in a way they had not done for a long time. 

‘I am gratified to hear that,’ he said; his voice betrayed joy, glee even. McGivers nodded. 

‘Good. That’s all, really.’ He rose and after saying good-bye to them all left. Jim saw in the corner of his eye how the nurse was rising, but all his concentration was on Spock, who was looking up at him. 

‘You’re coming home,’ Jim said, stunned at the thought. The Vulcan nodded, looking as if he did not quite dare to smile yet for fear of how unchecked it would be. His bondmate did not have his restraint, but threw his arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. The answer was eager, and as their lips met he felt a flood of emotion rising within him. There was relief and longing and devotion and boundless joy. When Jim broke the kiss, he embraced him properly. ‘It’ll all be fine,’ he whispered. 

‘I know,’ Spock answered. The fact that he verbalised it made it even more potent. When they drew back, hands still lingering in a grip, McCoy made his way around the table. 

‘What do you say, Bones?’ Jim asked, surveying his friend’s facial expression. He looked a lot like when a landing party managed to come back to the ship unscathed. 

‘I bloody hope they know what they’re doing,’ he said, but he was fighting to keep his laughter under control. He pressed Spock’s shoulder reassuringly and patted Jim on the arm. ‘They’re not bad, these kids,’ he pointed out as his face split into an oversized grin. 

‘Let’s go back,’ Mary said good-naturedly and wheeled Spock out of the room, as the other two followed closely. 

As the door to Spock’s room was closed while they moved him into the bed again, Jim tried to check what he felt. He almost wanted to take Bones by the hands and dance him around the corridor; if doctor Takka had passed, he might have kissed her. When Mary opened the door again, he all but rushed in. The excitement, which reverberated in his skull and almost made him dizzy, made everything but Spock fade into an undistinguishable blur. Sitting down on the bed, he found himself unable to resist touching him, but stroked his hair and took his hand. Breath ghosted against his cheek and then those warm lips pressed against his. When they broke the kiss, Jim leaned their foreheads together as he caught his breath form the sudden flood of emotion from both himself and Spock. 

At last his bondmate addressed him. 

‘Jim?’ 

‘Hm,’ he murmured to show that he was listening. When he felt Spock stirring, he drew away slightly to be able to look at him. 

‘I would not want you to have to remain here all day – it can hardly be pleasurable.’ 

‘I’m happy to keep you company,’ Jim said. 

‘There are preparations to be made for tomorrow. I would want you and the doctor to go and enjoy yourselves,’ he answered. ‘Besides, I will need to rest.’ The human still looked skeptical, at which, without letting go of Jim’s hand, Spock turned to McCoy. ‘Doctor McCoy, would you please bring Jim out for lunch and then help him with whatever errands need to be run?’ 

‘Sure,’ the old doctor said, grinning. ‘C’mon, Jimmy-boy. We’ve got places to be.’ 

‘That’s manipulation,’ Jim pointed out, McCoy’s grin spreading to him. Spock only lifted an eyebrow and said: 

‘I am merely using all methods open to me. Now go, _t’hy’la_. Have lunch. I will see you tomorrow, and then you will not have to leave.’ He knew Spock was right, of course, so he kissed him and rose. Then, regretting it, he leaned down and kissed him again. 

‘Love you,’ he murmured. 

‘And I you,’ Spock answered, smiling. ‘Doctor McCoy is getting impatient.’ Jim smiled, glancing at the third man, who looked almost as amused as the Vulcan. 

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Take care – I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He pressed his hand before letting go of it, feeling an answering joy in his mind. Before the door closed, he looked over his shoulder and Spock nodded at him, promise in his eyes. 

***

‘I can’t believe it,’ Jim said, mopping up the last of the tomato sauce with a piece of bread. They had settled on having Italian, which had been vastly better than any lunch they had the last ten days. When they had left the hospital, it had seemed as if even it had changed right before his eyes; suddenly he noticed things which seemed not to have been there before. He had spotted a couple in the corridor holding a baby which was so small it must have been only days old, an elderly woman who smiled to herself as if she had received some good news, and a small family who joked and talked and played tag, even if the father was in a wheelchair. It had not struck him that that place, which had seemed so dominated by misery and death, also held the opposite, those very soaring feelings he felt now. 

When he had finished the bread, he pointed out: 

‘You said it’d take weeks.’ 

‘Well, I was wrong,’ McCoy answered with a shrug. ‘Happy I was, really.’ 

‘If you were his doctor now, would you discharge him?’ Jim asked, leaning his elbows against the table. The other man thought for a moment, then said: 

‘Yes, I probably would, but I admit – gladly – that McGivers and the others beat me to that conclusion.’ Emptying his glass, he continued. ‘There’s more than just the physical condition of the patient to be considered. They’re doing the right thing. This is putting a strain on him – and on you.’ 

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘You’re not immune.’ Bones shrugged. 

‘We’ve got a load of stuff to do,’ he pointed out instead of answering. ‘Let’s get going.’ Jim waved at the waitress and paid for the meal. 

‘Where first?’ he asked as they went outside. 

‘Your place,’ McCoy answered. ‘You need to get some clothes for him – can’t send him home in his pyjamas.’ 

‘No, he wouldn’t like that.’ 

The drive was short, and as the lift slowed to a halt, Jim said: 

‘The place is probably a mess.’ 

‘Can’t be worse than mine,’ McCoy said as they stepped into the apartment. When they came into the living room, Jim looked towards the glass alcove, remembering Spock there, writhing in pain. Somehow, the imprint it had made in his mind’s eye seemed to have grown pale, and once again he felt that this was indeed his home. 

‘I’ve never been happier to see the place,’ he said, speaking his mind. ‘Okay, make yourself comfortable and I’ll sort out the bedroom.’ McCoy sat down in one of the armchairs, looking out over the bay, and the other man left the room. 

The bedroom was as he had left it ten nights ago; the bed-covers were flung aside, his pyjama bottoms were on the floor and there was laundry which needed to be put into the wardrobe. Jim took the sheets out of the bed and exchanged them for new ones. Then he put the laundry in place and started picking out clothes for Spock. He lingered with choosing a robe, but settled on a blue one which he was particularly fond of. After putting it all in a bag he returned to the living room and sat down beside Bones. 

‘Did you remember shoes?’ the old doctor asked, Jim nodded. They were silent for some time, and a strange melancholy gripped him. He had grown quite used to McCoy’s presence, and it seemed strange that he would not spend so much time with the man as before. 

‘So,’ he said awkwardly, and stared at Spock’s slippers, which he realised must have been discarded in the alcove all those nights ago. 

‘Yeah,’ Bones sighed and leaned forward, still looking out of the window. After yet more silence, he looked at him and said: ‘It’s been an adventure, of sorts.’ Jim smiled vaguely. 

‘I guess.’ He knew he was right, even if it had not been a sort of adventure they had had in their youth, and as adventures went, it was not the enjoyable kind. Still, it had brought them together in the way their missions had years ago. 

When McCoy spoke again, it was quite rushed. 

‘I promised I’d help.’ He looked away, as if to hide emotion in his face. ‘If you need it, just… let me know.’ Jim looked in his direction. After all these years, he was good at reading him. The stance of his shoulders spoke volumes of his reluctance to revert back to loneliness, left alone but for memories of the dead. The words escaped him before he had thought them through. 

‘There’s… always the guest-room.’ Bones looked his way, as if he was wondering if he had heard him right. ‘If you feel like it… I mean, having a doctor around might be… handy.’ The last sentence sounded as thin as it was. The other man smiled morosely. ‘I’d have to ask Spock, of course, but I think he’d be glad to have you around. Besides, we’ve sort of gotten used to it,’ he admitted. At that, McCoy laughed, looking down. 

‘Sure,’ he then said. ‘I’d be happy to… y’know, be around. Help out. I’ll have to make Jo take the cat, though, and get some stuff, but…’ 

‘No problem,’ Jim said, still feeling awkward. He heard Bones breathing out, and then felt a hand planted on his shoulder. When he looked up, McCoy jerked his head towards the door and said: 

‘If you’re done here, let’s get some _real_ coffee for once, and then collect my things.’ He nodded and rose when the contact was broken. 

‘Sounds good,’ he said, feeling his melancholy lifting. He knew now that it would all go back to normal, with a few, rather comforting, changes. 

***

Next morning, McCoy’s apartment seemed to seethe with activity and unspoken excitement. Even the cat seemed to feel it; she had woken Jim up by climbing onto the sofa and walking all the way down his body. When her claws made contact with the nape of his neck, he woke up with a start, but had still been happy to see the animal. The previous day, he had packed most of his things, and McCoy had also started assembling the belongings he was bringing with him. Most of all, however, the bond inside Jim’s head seemed to glow, and he could feel Spock’s thoughts turning to him. He sent acknowledgement through the connection. _Soon, darling._ The whole morning he never fully stopped thinking about it, as tantalised by it as if it were completely new. The cat followed him into the kitchen, jumping onto his lap and then climbing over the table to McCoy. 

‘She knows she’s leaving,’ he explained, scratching her head intently. 

‘Will she be okay?’ Jim asked without actually doubting it. 

‘Sure – Joanna loves animals. She probably thinks kitty’s going to be better off with her than with me.’ He spent some time patting the cat, until the door bell rang. ‘And that’d be her,’ he said, taking the cat in a firm grip and standing up. She struggled, but then gave in, letting him carry her out of the kitchen. As Jim heard his friend greet his daughter, he sipped his coffee and then went out into the hall, still with the cup in his hand. 

‘Does she still not have a name?’ he heard a woman say. As always when he saw her, he was surprised that she was not still twenty. Nowadays, Joanna McCoy was middle-aged, but admittedly bearing it well. 

‘I haven’t thought of one,’ Bones admitted, holding up the cat to let her pat her. 

‘It’s completely ridiculous that you haven’t given her a name yet, dad. When I give her back to you, I’ll have named her, okay?’ Joanna said, taking the cat from him. ‘How long will you want me to take care of her, by the way?’ McCoy looked at Jim, who shrugged. 

‘For as long as they need me,’ her father answered. She smiled, sighing slightly, and then looked at the newcomer. 

‘Hello, Joanna.’ 

‘Good morning, Captain Kirk,’ she said as she rearranged the nameless cat in her arms. ‘Dad told me Mr Spock is coming home today.’ She still used the titles they had had when they had gotten to know McCoy, something he had thought was endearing rather than annoying. When he nodded, she said: ‘You must be so relieved.’

‘Yes, very,’ he said, feeling grateful. ‘What are you going to name the cat?’ She looked the animal in the face; it peered back at the woman sceptically and yawned. 

‘I might name her Enterprise.’ McCoy scowled. 

‘That’s a ridiculous name for a cat,’ he pointed out. 

‘Well, you should have thought of something else, then,’ Joanna said and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take care, dad.’ 

‘You too, Jo,’ he answered. ‘Bye-bye, kitty.’ 

‘See you, Captain,’ she said, waving on her own and then taking the cat’s paw to wave with. He returned the gesture and watched her leaving. When the door closed, McCoy sighed and made an exasperated gesture. 

‘I don’t understand her,’ he said as he went back to the kitchen. ‘It must be something she gets from her mother.’ 

‘She’s all right,’ he said. ‘Should we get going?’ 

‘You’re very eager,’ the other man snorted. 

‘Of course I am. You would be too.’ Just after saying it, he realised it had come out sounding wrong, as he watched McCoy’s face falling. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, pressing his lips together. ‘I know what you mean.’ Then he left the kitchen again. Even if he was half-obscured by the doorway, Jim saw how he took the photograph of himself and Natira from the book-shelf. When he returned, he was carrying the bag which he was bringing; Jim assumed it contained the photograph now. ‘Help me clear off and we’ll go,’ he said, leaving it by the door and starting to clear the table. Jim helped him, and although he tried to sense some anger in the old doctor, there seemed to be none. He did not even seem melancholic; if anything, he was contemplative. They were silent until McCoy finished the dishes. When he put the last cup to the side, he said: ‘What a godsend. It’s over.’ Jim nodded, meeting his eyes for a moment. It was as if they understood one another, even when McCoy nodded back and turned away. ‘Let’s go get him back,’ he said, nudged him in the side and headed for the door. 

***

The door was closed when they arrived and Jim felt his stomach turn with sudden fear. Stopping a passing nurse, he asked: 

‘Has anything happened to Spock?’ The nurse seemed to try to understand what he meant for a moment, and then smiled. 

‘No no,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. The doctor’s just checking him over before the discharge.’ Jim sighed, his dread receding, and the nurse continued down the corridor with a nod. The two older men exchanged a look, Jim’s relieved, McCoy’s reassuring. The bond sparked, and the door opened. 

‘You were right – they _are_ here,’ Heloise said from the door-way, addressing someone inside the room. 

‘It is not surprising that I was right – the presence of my bondmate is quite unmistakable to me,’ At that measured, familiar voice, Jim’s face must have shone up, because the nurse smiled and beckoned him inside. He entered quickly, and then stopped in his stride. 

‘Spock.’ The rest of the world seemed to recede around them when he laid eyes on him. At first, he could not tell what made the man in front of him seem changed, but then he realised that he was perched on the edge of the bed. The stance seemed contrasted against how vulnerable he looked with his arms and knees left bare by the hospital night-shirt. Still, they had removed all the tubes; the only reminder was a small bruise just by his ear where the oxygen canula had grazed his skin. It was noticeable how much thinner he had become, and he still looked drawn and rather ill. Despite that, his eyes were wakeful and alert, and when they met Jim’s he felt them sending a jolt through him. Tenderness and devotion and love flooded from him and into Spock, and then the current seemed rather to become a whirl-pool, where they fed one another’s feelings. 

Spock held out his first two fingers and Jim’s came to meet them. The contact between their skin made the eddy of emotion more tangible but also more disciplined. Jim heard himself addressed through the bond, and mirrored the address, as he mirrored the movements of hands. The greeting felt ancient, bordering on ceremonial, but this seemed rather like a formal reunion after the enforced loneliness. 

When they broke the contact, speaking felt alien, and a strange silence found its way into the room. Doctor Takka was looking at them in fascination, and when Jim looked at her, noticing her for the first time since his arrival, she inclined her head and lowered her antennae in greeting. Turning back to Spock, who still seemed to be the natural centre of his attention, he said: 

‘I brought some clothes.’ His voice sounding strange in his ears, but Spock only smiled softly and answered in words. 

‘Thank you, Jim. Would you help me dress?’ Jim was surprised that he asked out loud, but in some way he was also pleased. As he helped him, he reflected that although the request had been an admittance to his weakness, it had most of all been a cementation of their united strength. Almost losing him had made him be closer to him than ever before. Between them, a sense of belonging, of keeping and being kept, bloomed. With every accidental brush of hands against skin, Jim felt their minds converging, locking tighter around one another. 

When Spock rose from the bed, Jim closed the fastenings in the neck of the robe, as one of his hands, betraying only the smallest of trembles, closed around his wrist, making the working fingers his, and in their minds even their physical beings seemed blurred together for a moment. Their eyes met for a moment in agreement, and then they stepped away from one another, but their minds did not draw back. 

‘I am ready,’ Spock announced, turning to Doctor Takka. She nodded, her antennae following, and took a PADD from one of the nurses. Looking pleased, she signed and sealed it. 

‘There. You’re discharged, Captain,’ she said. Then she took a disc out of her pocket and handed to Jim. ‘The prescriptions – you’ll be needing the medicines for the evening. The doses are all there. If you have any questions, let us know, and if anything at all happens, don’t hesitate to come here at once.’ She gave Spock a meaningful look, as if she suspected him of wanting to play invulnerable. 

‘Thank you, Doctor Takka,’ the Vulcan just said, saluting her. McCoy interrupted him. 

‘Wait a minute, you’re not planning on _walking_ to the exit, are you? You’re really not up for it.’ 

‘I agree,’ Takka said to Jim’s surprise. ‘Doctor McCoy is right – you shouldn’t overexert yourself. Nurse.’ She made a gesture and one of the nurses left and returned soon afterwards with a wheelchair. 

‘Very well,’ Spock said with a sigh, obediently taking Jim’s arm for support to walk the short distance and then sitting down. When he had arranged the robes around himself, he looked up. ‘Now, Jim, Doctor McCoy. Shall we go home?’ 

They said good-bye to Takka in the corridor; Jim had never thought he would be happy to leave someone he felt rather fond of. Heloise followed them to the exit, pushing the wheel-chair. They did not speak, but only occasionally glanced at each other. When they stepped outside, a shiver went through Spock, despite the thick robe he was wearing. McCoy disappeared to get the car, and soon he drove up and stopped by where they waited. Jim offered his arm, which Spock took silently, but with obvious gratitude. When he stood, leaning against his bondmate, he turned to Heloise. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, offering her the Vulcan salute. ‘Peace and long life.’ 

‘You too,’ she answered, taking the old phrase literarly. ‘Take care.’ Then waving good-bye and nodding happily at Jim, she left. 

‘C’mon,’ Jim said, opening the door to the back seat. Helping Spock in was not uncomplicated, but soon enough he was inside the car and Jim went around to the other side to sit beside him. 

‘All set?’ McCoy asked and looked over his shoulder. 

‘We’re ready,’ the other human said. As Bones started the engine again and drove away from the hospital, Jim moved his hand over the seat until his fingers brushed against Spock’s. Comfort and reassurance formed between them. Then he projected the conversation he and McCoy had had the previous day, asking his opinion through the bond. _Of course,_ the Vulcan’s mental voice answered. _He is most welcome._ Then the verbalised thoughts were lost in the sea of emotion. 

The journey was a mirror-image of the one he had made eleven days ago, but instead of alarm and stunning fear, he felt calm and belonging. They were silent during the drive, mostly not even looking at one another; the contact between their fingers sufficed. Perhaps Jim’s concentration on the bond was the reason why the drive felt longer than it tended to do, but it seemed to stretch out, and he had time to accustom himself to the renewed intensity of Spock’s presence. 

At last McCoy parked the car outside the house and they stepped out, Spock accepting the doctor’s arm as well as Jim’s when descending. The walk to the door was slower than Jim had expected, and his bondmate’s fingers pressed hard against his arm in concentration. If he had not been carrying a bag, he would have placed his other hand over his. Instead he reached out and nudged him through the bond. A soft smile spread over Spock’s features at the touch, and his step seemed to come more easily. When they stepped into the lift, Jim turned to McCoy. 

‘You’re in the guest-room, Bones.’ 

‘Good.’ They did not speak further as the lift rose, and all they exchanged when exiting it and going inside the apartment were short phrases about who would do what. At last, McCoy took the bag Jim had had been carrying and left them all in the hall. 

‘Living room?’ Jim asked Spock when he had removed his jacket, offering him his arm again. 

‘I can walk,’ the Vulcan pointed out, but took it all the same. He led him to the sofa in front of the fire-place, and McCoy followed after them. After his bondmate had sat down, Jim lowered himself uncomfortably down in front of the fire-place to light it; in his mind, he noticed Spock looking around the room. ‘It is curious to be here once more,’ he observed. 

‘Must be good, though,’ Bones said, leaning against one of the armchairs nearby. 

‘An understatement, Doctor,’ Spock just answered. Jim looked over his shoulder and caught sight of the amused look in his eyes, which made him smile. At that point, the fire crackled to life and he got to his feet again, wary not to hurt his knees. 

‘I’ll just sort the bags out,’ he said to his bondmate, and then turned to his friend. ‘Bones, there are sheets in the cupboard in the guest-room. You think you can manage?’ 

‘Sure,’ McCoy said. ‘See you both later, then.’ He went half-way across the hall towards the guest-room, then turned back. ‘It’s damned good to have you out of that place, Spock.’ 

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Spock answered sincerely. McCoy nodded at him and gave Jim a look of shared triumph before leaving to make the bed. Silence fell in the living room, and the former captain was just about to turn to leave when he was stopped. 

‘Jim.’ He looked up, meeting Spock’s gaze, which seemed to bind him to the spot. ‘Can the bags wait a few moments?’ 

‘Of course,’ he said, feeling a little bewildered, bordering on giddy, from the realisation that Spock had come back to him for real. Taking that to heart, he went and sat down close to him. ‘I’ll make you that _plomeek_ soup later,’ he said quietly, touching his cheek. ‘And tea, if you want it.’ 

‘Later,’ Spock repeated. ‘At the moment, I am fully satisfied by your presence.’ He placed his arms around him, even as Jim’s snaked around his waist. The embrace locked tight and for some time, words seemed needless; touch would do to verbalise their fulfilled longing. Still, when they pulled apart, Jim spoke. 

‘I almost thought you’d never come home.’ Spock’s face grew serious, and that look was almost too much. Jim swallowed, but a tear still escaped. 

‘ _T’hy’la_ , do not weep,’ he said softly, brushing it away with slender fingers. Jim sighed, blinked and rubbed his eyes. 

‘Look at me – such a silly old man.’ The Vulcan’s concerned expression transformed into a smile. 

‘I would have you no other way, Jim,’ he pointed out. ‘And as long as there is that choice, I will come home to you.’ Then he closed the space between their lips and as they kissed, his fingers, which had lingered on his cheek, slid towards his meld-points, and their thoughts joined briefly. Jim felt himself drawn into the expanse of his mind, which reminded him so of space, immense and beautiful, but still something he was part of. He lead him into it to the part he wanted to convey and hey were both plunged into the thought, so that Jim experienced being Spock even while being himself. He felt that cold horror, smelling of disinfectant and white walls and dulled pain, but then he saw something blotting it out; a glowing presence – a familiar mind and a large frame, a comforting embrace. _Me?_

_You are my anchor and my hearth,_ he heard Spock answer. _Indeed, my other half._ Jim tried to think of words to explain how he felt, but could not. Instead, he opened his mind and showed him the glowing place at the heart of his consciousness. Words of love, too great and complex to be carried by their voices, echoed through both their minds, reverberating between them. The meld was concluded, and the human felt the hot lips draw away. For a long moment, they looked at each other, and then Jim took him in his arms again. He savoured the feeling of his body against his own, then slid one hand across his right side. The quick beat of his heart was so familiar and only seemed marginally changed. Suddenly, he felt that all which mattered to him was this heart and the life it sustained. There was no sacrifice he was not willing to make for it, and he felt no regret for those he had made. He would happily give the whole expanse of space for him.

‘Spock?’ he whispered. 

‘Yes, Jim,’ came the answer, and when he looked to him, Spock smiled, his gaze filling with things which could not be said. Here there was no need for words, because they both knew and understood. Their hands sought one another, and it seemed to him that renewed life sparked within and between them, banishing all that which had haunted him until now. Jim Kirk turned his thoughts away from the stars and surrendered himself to this new existence.


End file.
